


Cat Eyes

by Cats_Obsessions



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eskel is such a good bro, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Mutual Pining, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Some Humor, This is basically game!Geralt and Netflix!Jaskier, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, a lot of fluff, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23114506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cats_Obsessions/pseuds/Cats_Obsessions
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier have been traveling together for many years, so when Geralt returns from a hunt to find the bard gone, he knows something went wrong. As he searches for his bard, Geralt realizes he's stumbled onto something much bigger. Turns out finding Jaskier is just the beginning. After being reunited, Geralt must help his dearest friend.It would seem after facing so much misery at Geralt's side, Jaskier would have left by now, but when their latest adventure brings them closer than ever, Geralt must face his emotions... eventually, anyways.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 283
Kudos: 830





	1. Missing

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to write summaries or title anything. I'll probably add tags with each chapter if it includes something new and tag worthy. 
> 
> Anyways, I've been playing Wild Hunt and it gave me lots of fun ideas. I have so much fluff planned later, but what fun is that if we don't get some mystery and angst first. ;)
> 
> Idk how I feel about the intro but hopefully that’ll make more sense later.

Geralt had always liked cats- preferred them to dogs without a doubt. They’re quiet creatures, though odd in temperament, but soft fur and a lack of offensive smell made them a tempting friend in even the worst towns. Alley cats treated well by townsfolk rub against children without qualm and bathe in sunbeams during summer evenings. He even admires those whom withered by time and unfortunate mistreatment fight bravely against even the worst monsters twice or thrice their size.

And yet, he finds even the friendliest feline treats him with distaste. The “cow cat”, as Jaskier had called it, raises its haunches, puffs out its tail, and snarls at him wickedly when Geralt approaches where the bard had been petting it fondly.

“Aw, it’s okay,” Jaskier says soothingly to the cat, his bottom lip sticking out like a dejected child. “It’s just Geralt, girl. He won’t hurt you.” He beckons the cat closer, but she doesn’t follow, still offended by Geralt’s presence.

The witcher takes a step back, giving the little creature space. “We need to get going.”

“It’ll only take a second,” Jaskier protests. “Here, crouch down. You won’t intimidate here that way. Maybe she’ll let you pet her!” he smiles.

Of course, Geralt knows that. He knows all the steps to approaching most creatures without scaring them. It simply won’t make a difference. “Cats don’t like me.”

Jaskier snorts “Don’t be absurd.”

He had beamed so brightly with so many of the fuzzy little creatures around. If Geralt didn’t know better, he would think Jaskier was enchanted the way every animal seems so happy in his presence. It’s foolish, but Geralt finds himself smiling bittersweet at the memory- the last time he saw Jaskier.

Two weeks had passed since they first stopped at The Seven Cats Inn; just a ways out of Novigrad, towns were few and far between. For the small population, the local inn was buzzing with energy. Geralt suspected the whole town came out to see Jaskier’s performances. And the bard thrived on it. That’s largely what convinced him it would be best to leave Jaskier behind while the Witcher did his job. As usual, the bard complained, but cockatrices were unpredictable, just too risky to face with a loudmouth human tagging along.

He thought that would keep him safe. He thought that he could protect him.

Most can only hope never to face the rage Geralt felt when he got back into town to find the bard gone almost without a trace. There had been many times over the years that the two had split up only to meet again when they could, but never without a proper goodbye- goodbye hug, more specifically; Jaskier would throw a fit if he didn’t get to hug the Witcher properly before going their separate ways. He hated everything about that at first, but now it just feels like a normal part of his life.

Jaskier was just like that. From the first time the fearless teen approached him in that tavern years ago, he has pushed and pushed and pushed against Geralts walls. While some boundaries changed, others were destroyed completely, and soon, Geralt found himself accepting a plethora of friendly touches, letting the bard share his food or beer, even asking Jaskier to travel with him on occasion, and, sometimes, _talking_. Not the kind of blabber most people do, but saying things and being understood- or saying nothing and being understood. Maybe that’s what makes the sudden disappearance of his travel companion more than a little harrowing.

Geralt walks around their room slowly, his senses focused on everything around him, looking, searching for something to tell him where the bard went. The townspeople weren’t terribly helpful- said he walked out on his own accord a few day’s ago, but Geralt found his precious lute in the room. He would never leave anywhere without that. So, he searches.

Traces of Jaskier’s cologne is still in the air, spicy sweet, a deep smell that’s become all too familiar to Geralt. The room is cleaned nearly spotless, though, his clothes and belongings gone- including the coin purse Geralt left with him. Another thing Jaskier would never do is steal from the Witcher. If he used Geralt’s coin, it was because it was offered to him. And they often shared coin, but he wouldn’t run off with it…

It’s clear something is wrong. He’s sure of it.

Geralt huffs irritably, circling the room once more until he plops down on the bed. Sheets have been changed. Don’t smell like either of them anymore. Maybe he’s not focusing enough. Witchers are trained to control their emotions so carefully, but he can feel the tightness in his chest, the speed of his heart that’s been elevated ever so slightly since learning of Jaskier’s disappearance.

That’s when he notices it, the peg from Jaskier’s lute is lying on the floor- seems it snapped off. The bard babies that thing. He would never hurt it unless… well, he’s seen the man take a swing at a few people with a lute- not this lute, though. He must have been truly desperate to try and fight if he was willing to risk this one. Geralt quickly scoops up the piece of wood, inspecting it over.

It has a different scent: something musky with hints of metal- it reminds him of the smell that often permeates poorly maintained alchemy studies. He puts that thought in the back of his mind, trying to track what remaining scent is left. With careful inspection, he finds the trail leads to a secluded alley where dead ivy vines cover the walls. his medallion immediately hums a he approaches. _Magic_. And with closer inspection, he finds scorch marks in a circle in the dirt. _Black magic_.

 _Fuck_.

Asking the townspeople about witches and magic in the area seemed to trigger a kind of silent terror in them. Though, he felt they all had little they could share. That was, until a frail old woman approached him by the well.

“There’s a pellar outside of town where all is abandoned. Your friend went looking for him a few days ago.”

Geralt startles “Jaskier is with a pellar!? Are these people so cowardly they-“

“No.” She interrupts. “Your other friend.”

“Tell me where this pellar is.” He demands, voice turning dark.

‘Friend’ could mean many things- enemies, Acquaintances, allies of the past, but few could really be friends. Geralt rounds up Roach, making sure to bring the bard’s lute with him, and rides as fast as he can to this abandoned hut in the middle of nowhere. He counts all the sorceresses he knows on the way, weighing if each one would come to harm Jaskier. None would. He knows better.

It becomes quickly obvious who this ‘friend’ is once he approaches the small hut, his sensitive hearing picking up on the deep and raspy voice inside.

“For fucks sake,” He murmurs, quiet enough the human pellar couldn’t hear. “Thank you for your advice on- erm, typomancy? But…” Eskel says hesitantly.

“Tyromancy,” Geralt corrects, pushing his way into the small hut.

The other Witcher’s eyes light up upon seeing him. It’s both a gift and likely a misfortune to find Eskel here. While he is Geralt’s brother in every sense but by blood, and he’s his most trusted friend aside from Jaskier, it also means whatever is going on must be big if it attracted the attention of _two_ witchers.

The other stands close in height with Geralt, though his brunette hair and large scars down the right side of his face differentiate the two significantly. They’d grown up together, have an alarmingly large amount of things in common, though Eskel could be a hair more polite- at least, he puts up with more than Geralt.

“Geralt? What are you doing here?” he asks curiously, sensing his tension. While he would be happy to embrace the other witcher, Geralt can think of nothing but his objective.

“I’m not interested in cheese. Where the fuck is my bard?” He spits, pushing past Eskel to confront the Pellar.

The man is old and frail, his person as covered in wise tail remedies as his hut is; cloves of garlic hang everywhere, filling the room with an offensive scent, and wind-chimes made of chicken bones hang from every window as well as the man’s necklace. Pellars are little more than cheap creepy sorcerers to Geralt, yet the people seem to trust them… most of the time.

“The p- pellar knows not of a bard you seek.” He sputters.

“Something happened to Jaskier?!” Eskel asks, alarmed.

Geralt grunts in response, turning to him “Taken from his room at the inn. Magic was involved. I found a burnt ring of ashes in the back alley.” He turns back to the pellar, a wicked glare in his eyes.

“Oh,” Eskel says, surprisingly gently. He puts a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, something to subdue him. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. It seems we may both be looking for the same sorcerer.”

 _Fuck_.

Geralt manages to listen while Eskel continues quizzing the Pellar. The old man is infuriatingly disorganized in his thoughts and clearly doesn’t sense the urgency of the situation, but Eskel does his best to keep Geralt from throttling the man for information.

Once they leave the hut, Geralt finally speaks up as they mount their horses, preparing to ride out together “what’s going on, Eskel?”

“I picked up a job looking for some missing girl a couple towns north of here. The trail kept leading to more missing people: a man living in the woods close to here, another farther west. The only trace left behind was these singed rings of ash.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches even tighter at that. If Jaskier has been taken as part of some sorcerers serial kidnappings- as what? Human experiments… no- he pushes the thought away, redirecting his mind to the job at hand.

“You think he’s using dark magic to transport these people elsewhere?”

“Maybe,” Eskel replies, noticeably gentle with his words. He had only met Jaskier a few times over the past ten years the bard has been traveling with Geralt, but Eskel knows they’re close. Even if he didn’t, he can read Geralt better than most.

“Any pattern with the…” _victims_. Geralt stops himself short, wanting deeply to avoid using that word to describe Jaskier.

“Not much. None are too old- none are sick, but nothing else is consistent,” he explains. “I just don’t get why this guy would go after a bard so well known for his association with a Witcher. Unless…” eskel trails off.

 _Unless it’s a trap_. But that’s a risk they have to take. “Perhaps he won’t be expecting two Witchers.” Geralt grumbles.

\------------

It’s a four day ride to the abandoned tavern the pellar directed them to. They make it in three and a half with little to no sleep and minimal rest for the horses. Geralt feels bad, but Roach has always been a trooper. That’s part of what he loves about her. ‘Sorry girl, but we’ve gotta find Jaskier,’ he murmured to her one night after sensing she was getting tired. She seemed to perk up after that, and Eskel was kind enough not to comment on Geralt’s habit of speaking to his horse- yet, anyways. 

They stop in towns only to pick up needed supplies and check for more missing people. None are found, but reports of a mysterious hooded man pop up the closer they get. That could be anyone, but it gives Geralt a little hope.

When they approach the old dilapidated building, though, he’s sure the pellar was telling the truth.

“The power here…” Eskel says, more to himself than anything.

It’s a large stone building with part of the second floor caved in. It’s situated in the middle of a ghost town. Little cabins and cottages lay completely untouched, some even with food and supplies still stocking them.

Geralt jumps off Roach as soon as he can, practically running toward the building, all his senses on high alert. He breathes in deep, scenting the air for even a hint of that familiar cologne. Eskel searches the outside for any signs of the sorcerer. 

“Scorch marks over here!” he calls out from somewhere behind the tavern. 

Some simple investigating reveals the sorcerer has put a mirage put over a large hole in the back of the tavern. It’s almost too easy to find, and Geralt wonders if that was the man’s intent.

Dissipating it with The Eye of Nehelani, the two carefully step into the abandoned room, swords already drawn. They’re greeted by a few mice and a musty room, the scent likely brought on from years of leaking roofs and neglect. It’s almost overwhelming- almost.

“He’s been here. Days ago, but I can still smell him.” Geralt says, just as concerned as he is hopeful. There’s no blood in the air, and his natural scent has dissipated, but the bard’s cologne seems to stick to the air in even the worst conditions.

Eskel breathes in deeper, picking it up for himself “He wear all that cologne to cover up your smell?”

Geralt smirks, “Who would’ve thought it’d actually come in handy one day.” He thinks back to all the times he pestered Jaskier for even spending coin on cologne, muchless wearing it on days he wasn’t mingling at parties or performing. But it seems it wasn’t a waste after all.

Geralt’s eyes shift over the room, taking in all the details: broken down chairs lay on their sides, bird’s nests in the rafters, an old bar clearly depleted of alcohol, and bookselves, interestingly with scratch marks on the floor in front of them.

“Is that a secret door I see?” Geralt says, quickly noticing the broken looking torch next to it.

“Typical,” Eskel scoffs “Sorcerers can never be original, can they?”

They should be thankful, really. It saves them time at least. And every second that passes could be a second too late- but Geralt tries not to think about that, tries not to think about how this is his fault, about how Jaskier wouldn’t be in this mess if he let the bard come with him as he had wanted, about-

“Geralt.” Eskel interrupts his thoughts sternly, tugging on the torch to open the door.

“Hm,” he grunts, pretending he wasn’t beginning to panic. Geralt can feel the anxiety rise in his chest as the door slowly swings open. A gust of metallic musty air hits him- that’s exactly what he smelled on Jaskier’s lute!

“We’re close!” he says, lips curling up in the hint of a dangerous smile. Being a witcher is his job, but Geralt might enjoy this kill a little too much if he finds the little shit so much as touched his bard.

Geralt goes first, Eskel trailing behind him. They descend slippery steps into a dungeon of sorts. A few twists and turns through caverns, rock ceilings dripping with water, and he finds Jaskier’s scent grows stronger. Damp dirt clearly shows the deep footsteps of what would either be a very heavy man, or a man carrying something- like another person. The steps end in front of an old metal door.

Upon approaching it, they can easily hear a quick and panicked heartbeat inside the room- heavy breathing, too.

“Is it..?” Eskel says quietly.

Geralt listens- there’s other smells here, other people. “I’m not-”

But then he hears it: a pained cry- shriek escapes the bard, and though he’s never heard Jaskier make such a horrible noise before, he’s sure that’s him. And it throws Geralt into somewhat of a frenzy he’s never felt before. It’s like his vision goes red as he lunges for the door, pushing and pulling at it, only to find it solid shut even when he slams his shoulder against it with his witcher strength.

“Geralt,” Eskel says firmly, pushing the other witcher out of the way. “I got this.”

While Geralt’s mutations are the most advanced of any of the Wolf School witchers, Eskel has always had a certain knack for signs. A pass of his hand, casting Aard, the door flies off it’s hinges, slamming against the stone wall with a heavy thud. Geralt rushes in, his sword gripped tightly in his hands, only to find Jaskier alone in the room.

“Jaskier!” He exclaims, rushing to the bard’s side. He’s curled into a ball in the dark and mostly empty room, not even a candle lit for him. His feet and hands are chained together. Small whimpers come from the bard; he’s clearly in pain, barely responding to Geralt’s voice.

“Jask,” He tries again, kneeling next to him. Geralt quickly grabs the chains, ripping them apart with his bare hands in an adrenaline induced rage- or is it fear? “Jask, look at me. What’s going on?” he says, reaching out to gently touch the bard, lifting his chin to meet his eyes.

“G- Geralt?” Jaskier replies finally, his voice raspy. He looks pale, so pale for someone who seems to always be blushing. And his heart is so fast.

The room smells of death, something worse than death- something he can’t be bothered to put his finger on right now, but whatever it is brings up a horrible yet familiar feeling in his gut. Behind him, Eskel peruses the room, listens for anything coming, and tries to find hints as to what is going on. Geralt can hear the clinking of glasses as Eskel seems to be rummaging through something on a table, but he barely processes it.

“We’ll get you out of here. You’re safe now. What- whatever’s wrong, we’ll figure this out, okay?” Geralt says softly, trying his very hardest not to panic at the sight before him. Has he been poisoned? Used for some sick experiment? Oh, please don’t be cursed. He brushes the hair out of Jaskier’s eyes where it sticks to his forehead from sweat, and the bard leans into his touch. He’s warm, too warm. A curse would be better than some horrible disease. Maybe a curse wouldn’t be so bad. He could do something to help him if it was a curse…

“Geralt,” Eskel says, and there’s something so off in his voice, Geralt probably would have ignored him if he wasn’t so sure that might be fear. He turns his head to see Eskel holding a potion, dozens of empty vials and bottles next to it. He takes another whiff of the one he’s holding, his eyebrows scrunched together and gaze avoiding Geralt altogether. “I’ve only smelled this once.”

As Geralt’s senses shift away from Jaskier, he’s suddenly hit with exactly what is around him: Jaskier’s been coughing up blood and sick in about every way for what must be days. The room is pulsing with magical energy. Something most definitely died here before he came in, only it wasn’t cleaned well enough. And that familiar putrid stench…

“That’s impossible!” He growls, raising to his feet. He pulls the vial from Eskel’s hands gracelessly, though he’s careful not to spill it. One close inhale is all he needs to relive the worst few weeks of his life.

“We have to- he-” Jaskier begins, cut off by his own look of terror. Geralt spins around to see what the bard is staring at to find the mysterious sorcerer standing behind them as if he had silently materialized there.

The man is old, yet unaged, taking on an uncanny horror to his lifeless looking skin. He covers himself in a dark cape, but sharp nearly white eyes can clearly be seen gazing at them.

“Ah, two witchers, not one. Wonderful.” The man croons, his voice reflecting his age.

Geralt puts himself between Jaskier and the man, sword drawn with raw hatred in his eyes. “What have you done to him!?” he all but yells. He can’t attack, not yet.

“White Wolf, you already know, do you not?”

“No! That’s impossible. Undo it. Now.” He spits between clenched teeth, fangs fully out. If the sorcerer pushes this much farther, he might actually be growling like a wolf in a matter of seconds. “I swear, I’ll make you regret ever being born if so much as a hair on his head is not back in place in the next ten minutes.”

“You know that is what is actually impossible. One can only go forward, not backwards once beginning the Trials. The grasses have already been injected into his veins; there is no removing them, only waiting and watching to see if he survives them.”

 _No, no, no._ It can’t be possible _._ Geralt can’t even say a word, only gripping his sword harder, so tight the handle might actually break. That feeling returns to him, as if his eyesight were going red, but without anything to do about it, he only feels lightheaded.

The sorcerer smiles, walking relaxed to the potion table as if he didn’t have two witchers ready to pounce and slit his throat in a moments notice.

“You’re both old enough to remember when King Ratowit II disowned the witchers, allowing most to be slaughtered or imprisoned.” He continues, picking up the vial Eskel and Geralt had been investigating. He holds it up, looking into the liquid as he speaks “The king took extra care to remove all those who knew how to make witchers properly, sorcerers and sorceresses alike. I was but a young apprentice back then, but well, what can I say- a good teacher’s knowledge never fully leaves their pupils.” He smiles, teeth too white, almost like a creature. “I’ve been working on a formula to bring the witchers back. You should be thankful.”

Behind him, Geralt can hear Jaskier’s panic- little whimpers and the occasional groan escape his voice even though it’s very clear he’s trying to stay silent. Does he even know what’s happening to him?

“Why?!” Geralt growls.

The sorcerer chuckles, “Why do you think?”

Power, coin, fame, sick perversion. There are endless possibilities, all equally as sick as the last.

“Witchers choose their path! You took him and force fed him. We spend our whole lives training for the path and you- you pushed it onto a _bard_.” Eskel sputters, his own anger rising. But they don’t attack. They’re not dumb. If Jaskier has any chance of survival, they can’t kill the sorcerer yet.

“You never truly chose the path!” he retorts “It was chosen for you as children- abandoned and unloved, your parents dropped you at the doorstep of killers knowing full well the gruesome end you would endure.”

Geralt opens his mouth to argue- to demand- to do _something_ , but the sorcerer waves his hand and he finds himself frozen in place, not a muscle able to move.

“I’m done with this. You know what must be done. Lucky for you, I’ve provided all the potions you’ll need to complete the bard’s transformation- if he survives, consider it a gift from me to you.”

With that, he disappears in a cloud of smoke. A metallic scent fills the air, a ring of scorched ground left behind.

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_. Geralt looks to Eskel, absolute horror in his eyes. Almost to emphasize the situation, he vaguely processes the sound of Jaskier puking in the background.

 _Wonderful_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! <3 I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Tumblr: @cats-obsessions


	2. Found, but Wanting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some somewhat graphic descriptions of violence/illness/what happens during the Trials. If that bothers you, I provide a basic description of what the Trials are at the beginning, and asterisks (*********) mark the beginning and end of the more graphic angsty part- also, I may have embellished exactly what the experience of going through the trials is like. Oh well.

Jaskier is in the early stages of being turned into a witcher- one of the most horrendous and life-threatening experiences anyone could ever face. With the sorcerers notes and an ungodly amount of potions, each labeled hopefully correctly, they are able to figure out where he is in the process.

_The Trial of the Grasses._

Witchers are trained from a young age for their purpose, but the truth is, all are born human. And they remain human until they have proven themselves ready for the Trials. Most believe the Trials are physical challenges like a deadly obstacle course for witcher children, but they’re not. It is the process of going through mutations. If one’s body accepts the mutations, they live. If not, they die. It’s simple. In theory, anyways.

They train physically, mentally, and in some ways spiritually their whole life. Not only are they taught to wield weapons of all kinds and about the intricacies of monsters and alchemical brewing, but also about mental resolve and how to overcome pain no untrained human could bare. They gain an immunity to poisons and prepare for their mutations with diluted strains ahead of time.

The Trials consist of three parts. First, the Trial of the Grasses in which they a variety of alchemical ingredients to alter one’s nervous system are directly infused in their veins via magic- which is why each witcher school had their own mages which guarded the process closely, leaving it a mystery after their removal at the hands of King Ratowit II. This process had already been done to Jaskier, though he would have to wait several painstaking days of violent illness before it fully took effect.

Next, was the Trial of Dreams. This is usually the worst. It is said the pain is so great that most men would kill themselves to rid them of it. Geralt would agree. In this stage, a true witcher is born out of the mutation of their eyes, bone marrow, and hormones; night vision was granted, their bones became stronger to an incredible point, and senses became sharper. It was as if setting one’s self on fire to begin anew- horrifyingly painful.

The third trial was more like a quiz to ensure the witcher remembered the training, that their memory was not lost in the shock of the transformation. While Jaskier won’t need to pass a quiz, they would be lucky if he retained even memory of his own name…

The whole thing takes a little over a week and a half. Geralt’s own experience was much longer than other witchers as he showed an unusual resistance to the traditional trials. Rather than a more pleasant experience, he was faced with additional experimental and exceedingly excruciating mutations. That’s what got him his white hair and additional strength and healing abilities.

Jaskier, though, they don’t even know if the sorcerer has the right recipe and ingredients, much less the theoretical foundation of it, as each school had a slightly different approach with differing outcomes.

Jaskier is about four days in, from what they can tell, nearing the end of the Trial of the Grasses. This stage is most notable for the vile physical reaction it causes. Namely, the production of about every bad body fluid one could imagine. Which would explain the absolute stench of the room…

With the sorcerer long gone and Geralt and Eskel left to their own devices, Geralt paces back and forth, his head in his hands while he waits for Jaskier to finish emptying the contents of his stomach _again_.

“There has to be another option,” he says.

Eskel shakes his head “We have to keep going, Geralt.”

Geralt glances at Jaskier where he’s settled against the wall again, eyes all but glazed over, and his heart clenches tighter than he knew possible. He turns to Eskel, grabbing the other witcher’s arm and dragging him out of the room, though without any real force. Once they’re out of Jaskier’s earshot, he speaks- tries to speak, anyways. It’s almost like how he had felt when the sorcerer put his spell over them, but this time he just feels the telltale tightening in his throat.

“Geralt,” Eskel says softly-

Too soft. This is not why he dragged Eskel out here. They need to make decisions and _now_. Geralt looks away, gluing his gaze to a cracked stone in the wall as he clears his throat. “What your asking me-“

“I know,” Eskel answers.

“He’s a thirty-year-old bard whose main form of exercise is playing the lute, flirting with married people, and following me around.” Geralt stops, shaking his head as words fail him again. “He won’t make it.”

Eskel places his hands on Geralt’s shoulders firmly, “If you don’t want to continue, you might as well kill him yourself now.” Geralt flinches at his brother’s harsh words “You know if you stop, he’ll die. He’s almost through the Trial of the Grasses.”

“The Trial of the Dreams is worse, and you know it- we would just be dooming him to a tortured end.”

“If we don’t give him the mutigens, his enhanced nervous system will kill his weakened body by the end of the month. The best you can do for him is _try_.” Eskel says earnestly. “You need to get ahold of yourself and be there for him.”

That shocks Geralt back into reality. He feels like his head is floating, but he needs to treat this like every other mission of his life- he has to focus and put those emotions aside. Completing the task at hand is what matters now, for Jaskier’s sake and his.

“Right, you’re right.” He says firmly, his resolution strengthened.

“Good.” Eskel says, patting Geralt’s shoulder before letting go. “Let’s move him to one of those abandoned houses we saw outside- somewhere clean. I’ll get the supplies, you get the bard.”

Geralt carries Jaskeir out of the basement to a small cottage mostly still intact. Eskel first brings the supplies the sorcerer left behind, then brings food and drink from their horses. Thankfully, they brought extra expecting to find some of the sorcerer’s victims parched and hungry.

Geralt tucks Jaskier in the old rickety bed, setting one of his blankets over him and a bucket next to him- it’ll be used often, he’s sure. The bard mumbles mostly nonsense, but he seems to be comforted by the witcher’s company. That’s encouraging at least.

Once they figure out the order of ingredients to give him and at which intervals, Geralt turns to Eskel, even more dread in his gut than he expected possible right now. “We need to find Yennifer.”

Eskel raises an eyebrow, seemingly considering his words before he speaks “Do you think it’s wise to get your ex involved right now?”

Geralt swallows thickly. Yes, he hasn’t seen her in some time, and things are… hostile, but “She’s older than us. She might know about this magic- might be able to help him or find the sorcerer responsible for this.”

Eskel nods slowly, seeming to consider it. “I’ll find her.”

“What?”

“You should stay with him.”

“I can find Yennifer faster,” Geralt protests.

Eskel simply rolls his eyes “I am not about to have this conversation with you, Geralt. If anything happens to the bard while you’re gone, you’ll never forgive yourself. Besides, I think it’s good for him to have you there- not me- not just anyone.”

“Go quickly, then.” He agrees begrudgingly. “And be careful.”

Eskel smiles weakly “You, too, Geralt.”

****************

There are times which Jaskier can communicate more clearly- one or two word phrases to ask for water or food. He can’t keep much down, but it seems to help. The convulsions are… bad. The bard is in pain as every nerve in his body seems to be on fire. His symptoms cycle as each ingredient in his veins seems to take its turn torturing him. Geralt remembers by the seventh day of his first trial, that felt like a blessing if only because it meant he got respite from whatever ailment he had experienced from the last thing.

Jaskier would sometimes ask for distraction, and Geralt would do his best. He found himself running his fingers through the bard’s hair or caressing his hand as he held it between his own while he told him stories about his monster hunting. He wasn’t sure how much the bard could hear or process, but he hoped desperately it would help.

What he dreaded most was the trial of the Dreams. When the day came to begin it and Yennifer was no where in sight, he felt the crushing weight of defeat. Jaskier was finally more lucid than before, and he took the bard’s hands in his own and explained what was happening, what had to happen. When he told him there were more potions to take- mutigens, actually, Jaskier cried. Geralt, too, almost.

Those days were the worst. It made him question how Vesemir and the other elder witchers could stand to see the children they raised go through such pain. Jaskier was no longer incoherent for most of it and could cry and speak, and beg Geralt to make it stop, which was perhaps what broke his heart the most. Though he tried to focus on the task at hand, Geralt found he actually couldn't stop himself from feeling; he almost wished for a moment that mutations did take witcher's emotions away. Maybe this wouldn't be so difficult, then. 

His mind began to wander to more sentimental things the more time passed. Jaskier had always been the most handsome man to Geralt, though he would never admit it. His delicate features and sky-blue eyes were so _pretty._ His form, though almost as tall as Geralt, is so fragile. Where Geralt has wide shoulders and bulky muscles, Jaskier is thin and lean. His hands with long nimble fingers look so small in the witcher's own.

As the mutigens take over his body, his bones will crack under pressure and heal stronger with new marrow; each of his senses will temporarily go out one by one only to come back stronger than before, normally from least alarming to most, beginning with smell, ending with his sight as he would cry blood, going blind temporarily as his eyes morphed to become like Geralt’s. That’s what Geralt dreaded seeing most- the glassy blue escaping the eyes of his human. If he survives, they'll go gold like his own- like all witchers. It's foolish, but it's really a shame to think he would lose such beautiful eyes. 

On the last day, Geralt was beginning to wonder if Eskel had died in his search for Yennifer or if she simply refused to help. He’s beginning to feel like his own sanity has been lost along with Jaskier’s. Blood drips down the bard’s mouth- some of his teeth fell out and regrew. Geralt didn’t remember that part, so it was alarming to say the least.

Jaskier’s light blue eyes look more like grey haze, a glossy sheen covering them. Geralt has been holding him in his arms for some time, trying to give him a sense of grounding after his vision left. He cried at first, but now he’s quiet. Growing quieter.

“Jask,” Geralt says softly.

No response.

“Jaskier!” he says louder.

His heartbeat is slowing, Geralt can feel it, and his skin feels colder. And in the very back of his mind, he knows this happens. But this, this is the moment where he truly can’t be sure- where it really feels like he’s losing him.

“Julien, I need you to listen to me. Can you hear my voice?” He feels only the slightest tightening in the bard’s grip on his arm and it sends the strongest bolt of panic through Geralt’s body that he’s ever felt. All the sudden, he’s thinking about every human he’s watched die- the way their eyes give up, their body goes cold, just like this. But those were humans. This is _his_ human. The one he said he’d be responsible for. The one he swore to himself he’d protect. The one- the one he needs.

And every stupid memory with him comes rushing to Geralt’s mind all at once, all the times Jaskier had defended him, cared for him, never once being afraid of him. He knows he never deserved that kind of friendship, but by the gods if it had to end, Geralt should be the one dying not the bard. He’s lived long enough, after all.

And that’s a thought he hasn’t quite had about anyone else before; he would die defending people, even people who didn’t care about him, but in this moment he feels true desperation; he would do anything for Jaskier to be alive and happy, gladly trade his life for the bard's, _anything_. And it’s a feeling stronger than anything else he's experienced. Suddenly, he realizes he doesn’t want to live in a world where this little songbird doesn’t exist, can’t pester him day and night, won’t be beside him in good times and bad. He had always expected Jaskier to leave him on his own accord, get tired of him and move on like everyone else, and he wouldn't stop him because even ten years of friendship was more than he ever imagined. But watching him die because of Geralt...

“Please, Jask, you have to keep going. You have to. Don’t give up on me,” he says. He vaguely registers the feeling of wetness on his cheeks before he realizes _he's_ crying. Geralt presses his forehead to Jaskier’s, watching as the bard’s eyelids flutter shut.

And it all makes sense. As much as he’s avoided it- the way the bard makes his heart warm and brings a smile to his face with even the tiniest things, or why he puts up with all the pushing and prodding- how the incessant chatter that annoyed him so much at first somehow become welcomed- he understands fully now what he has been feeling all along. It’s truly the worst feeling he’s ever had because it only comes with the realization he never told Jaskier even an ounce of what he feels. Never even said he liked his songs, and oh what he would give to hear any of those songs now, even the ones he claims to detest. 

“You’re all I have. I can’t lose you. Not like this. Please.” As the bard slips into unconsciousness, Geralt no longer feels like he has control over the words coming out of his mouth, and he finds him self whispering just barely audibly, “I love you.”

And then he hears it. Jaskier’s heart stops. One. Two. Three beats of silence which seem to span forever. But then, it begins again, stronger but slow. his breathing steadies out, no longer shallow, but as clear as Geralt’s own. Geralt finds himself releasing a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.

He's survived. Somehow, someway, his foolish, ridiculous, obnoxious, _beautiful_ bard survived.

Abruptly, for the first time in a week and half, Geralt can actually feel the exhaustion in his own body, completely devoid of sleep and pressed with stress and grief. He lets his head lean back against the cold wall and pulls Jaskier closer as sleep overwhelms them both.

*************

It took Eskel far longer to get to Yennifer as he had hoped. It seemed he was always one step behind her a she hopped from city to city: a fact he found was on purpose as when he finally confronted her, she pulled a knife on him, mistaking him for some kind of assassin. _Wonderful_.

By the time he convinces her to return with him, he knows Jaskier is either dead or a witcher. But the issue of the sorcerer will still be there, and they’ll either need to stop him from killing more or take revenge for Jaskier. That much, Yennifer agreed to help with.

Yen and Eskel portal back, stepping out in the middle of town. Eskel B-lines for the small cottage, at least registering the sound of breathing inside. He tells Yennifer he’ll go in first to check the room. Somehow he thinks _she’s_ squeamish, it seems.

It smells of death, though most of the body fluids have been cleaned from the room. There is dried blood on the floor where Jaskier coughed it up- specks of blood everywhere, really. That’s the strongest smell. 

Yennifer pushes past him only to be welcomed with a sight she truly had hoped never to see. Jaskeir, pale and covered in blood, is curled up in Geralts arms, his face nuzzled against the white wolf’s neck. She is sure he is dead, and Geralt looks as close to death as she’s ever seen.

“Oh…” she says mournfully. Even she feels pain for him, for both of them. Though the bard and her had not agreed on much, she never wished him this. And Geralt… _Oh, Geralt_. Of course, he wouldn’t let go of his dearest friend, even in death. At times, she didn’t understand why the two were friends at all. Others, she wondered how deep their feelings for each other actually went…

She approaches the two, crouching next to them so she can look at Jaskier’s face, see if it can tell her anything about what happened to him, as blood seems to have dried near his mouth and eyes.

She reaches out slowly, just to touch Jaskier, check his pulse to be sure. When she does, bright eyes open, catching her in their gaze, the dead man somehow alive.

Undignified as it is, Yennifer shrieks, falling back in shock.

That’s more than enough to startle Geralt awake too. He almost lunges for his swords until he sees Eskel standing in front of him, wide eyed himself.

“Y- Yennifer?” Jaskier questions, his voice clear as day, almost as if he had not spent the past two weeks in agonizing pain.

“Holy fuck…” Eskel murmurs, walking closer to look at the bard. Both Yennifer and Eskel look at him with confused astonishment in their eyes.

“Geralt?” Jaskier questions. He seems confused, but not upset with his spot in the witcher’s arms as he does not move to get off of Geralt's lap.

When he looks up at Geralt, the Witcher sees what the other two are staring at: bright blue slit eyes stare at him from the bards usual yet paler face. He has never seen anything like it before, and the sight all but takes his breath away.

Geralt manages to stop gawking “Jask, do you remember anything? How do you feel?”

“W-what happened to me? I- only bits and pieces… mostly vomiting. There- there was a man, a sorcerer- and then just you.” He seems to be processing his surroundings for a second before turning to Yennifer “could you be quiet, I’m trying to think!”

Yennifer observes him more like a wild animal than the bard she knows. He knows that because he doesn’t get turned into a frog for fussing at her. “I didn’t say anything.” She simply replies.

For a moment, Geralt wonders if Jaskier is going crazy. Then, he remembers how different the bard's senses must be, and it actually makes him chuckle. “Are you talking about her heartbeat?”

Eskel smiles too “Can’t believe the bard survived. His eyes though.”

“What’s wrong with my eyes?!” Jaskier asks, panicked all of the sudden.

“They’re blue,” Yennifer says.

“And!??” He exclaims. Dramatic as always, though this time he might have a right to be. It seems Jaskier doesn't understand what happened to him, only remembers how horrible it was. 

“Sh,” Geralt soothes him, uncharacteristically gentle, his hand rubbing against Jaskier’s back. “Those potions the Sorcerer gave you turned you into a Witcher.”

“What!?” He asks, turning to Geralt. This time, when big blue cat eyes find Geralt’s, the White Wolf is smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter made me almost sad even though I knew how it would end, but I mean how else is an oblivious Witcher hellbent on dying alone supposed to realize his true feelings?! 
> 
> Watch out though, the next chapters are about to get fluffy :P
> 
> Thank you so so much to everyone who commented or left Kudos on the last chapter! I was so happy, and honestly surprised, to see all the interest in this story <3 I'm really excited about it, especially the upcoming chapters, so I hope you enjoy too!!


	3. The Little Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk Jaskier deserves some softness after that. Besides, what even is a Witcher fic without a bath scene? :P

Yennifer insists on portaling them out of town, much to _all_ the witchers’ distaste. They settle at an old creaky house she had been staying at recently, though Geralt knows it’s one of many safe-houses. Despite its age, it is quite large and well furnished. Deep red carpets accent dark wood flooring and dusty gold laden torches adorn each wall. It seems her taste for luxury has not changed since they last met. And it has been some time.

There’s some irony to be had that everything fell apart when Geralt made that foolish wish, but maybe there was more to it than that. They’ve met in passing- they’ll always meet in passing. She’s been hostile at times, but that’s just Yen. There’s something underneath her prickly posturing that still cares for people- and what’s right, otherwise she wouldn’t be here. But power always comes first, isn’t that the truth?

He missed her greatly when things first fell apart, but these days… well, this day especially he finds his focus on Jaskier- that foolish bard stayed by his side no matter what. At times, it almost makes Geralt wonder why he ever thought he needed a wish to make someone stick around. _Almost_.

Though unhappy about their presence, Yennifer is kind enough to offer them two rooms, food, and use of the bath. Jaskier is weak, but he can walk. He protests when Geralt follows him to the bath, despite his history of following Geralt to his.

“I’m fine,” he complains.

“I’m not about to let you fall asleep in the bath and drown after all that.” Geralt retorts, pushing his way into the small bathroom. It’s non-negotiable, and even if Jaskier was in a better state, he still wouldn’t have the strength to make Geralt leave.

With a flick of his hand, all the sweet smelling, half melted candles ignite around them. The light is dim as the sun has set outside, but its more than enough for his eyes- for both their eyes, now.

It’s odd switching places, Jaskier’s tired eyes fluttering in the comfort of the hot water as Geralt helps him wash his hair for once. It’s not something he asked for, but neither did Geralt when Jaskier first started helping him.

“You must be tired,” Jaskier murmurs.

Geralt huffs “Don’t worry about me.”

There’s a long silence between them as Geralt takes a wet towel and wipes away any remaining blood from Jaskier’s face, already feeling relieved to see him looking more normal. He let’s his eyes roam over the bard’s face, checking for any additional scratches or changes. His cheeks are getting rosier by the minute, thank goodness. Something in the pit of his stomach says he would miss those blushing cheeks or the redness of his lips if Jaskier had ended up as pale as himself. Something more logical in him says he’s only thankful because this will allow the bard to pass off as more human. Beside Geralt, maybe no one will even notice anything is off about him- he hopes, anyways.

“Do I look funny or something?” Jaskier asks, his initial energy after waking up already sapped out of him, but he manages to offer a small smile.

“Not at all,” Geralt says, catching the bard’s eyes. His pupils are wide as can be in the dim light, much more lovely than they have a right to be.

“Can I see?”

Geralt sees no point in putting it off. He manages to rummage through the cabinet in the room until he finds a small hand mirror- of course Yennifer would have one. He returns, kneeling by Jaskier again to hand it to him. He watches quietly, almost anxiously as Jaskier inspects his face, leaning close to the mirror to see his eyes.

“I look normal,” he says, almost a little confused. “Why are my eyes blue though?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt answers honestly.

Jaskier stares for a second more before the edges of his lips tilt up in the beginning of a smile. “I’m glad they’re still blue- not that I don’t find your eyes beautiful.”

“Hm,” Geralt hums in agreement, though part of him hopes Jaskier doesn’t notice exactly how much he agrees.

When Geralt reaches to take the mirror from Jaskier, he stops him. Nimble fingers wrap gently around the witcher’s wrist as he looks at him with warmth in his eyes. “Thank you, Geralt.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Geralt registers the bard rubbing soft circles against his skin with his thumb. Geralt only offers him a nod when Jaskier releases him, getting up to put the mirror away before he begins to overthink anything again.

After Jaskier heads off to one of the bedrooms, Geralt finally gets a chance to wash up himself. He draws his own bath, water as scorching hot as he can get it as if it could burn off the stress of the past two weeks. He tries not to let his mind wander too much, tries not to think about all the things he’s felt throughout this process that he never thought he could feel before. He’s just thankful it’s over- mostly. They will need to track down the sorcerer and help Jaskier handle his new state, but he can do that. He knows how to do that- mostly.

His altered state… The mutigens affect witchers’ hormones, some strains changing their personalities entirely. Jaskier has been awfully quiet, though Geralt knows he is exhausted, but he still lets it worry him. _What if he’s changed too much?_

When he leaves the baths, Geralt heads toward the room which Jaskier retired to, so used to sharing as they do at inns and when camping.

“Where are you going?” he hears Eskel ask. The other witcher leans against the doorframe of his own room, his arms crossed.

Geralt raises his eyebrow, replying a little sharper than needed “Going to check on him, what does it look like?”

“In case of what? Sudden death?” Eskel chides, “Yennifer already checked with him. Apparently, he’s fine.”

“But what if he’s not?” Geralt bristles.

“You and I both know he is. Let him rest. Tomorrow, you can perform the third trial.”

Geralt snorts “There’s not much to quiz him on in terms of witcher protocol.”

“No,” Eskel smiles “I suppose you’ll have to quiz him on bard things- barding?”

Geralt roles his eyes, but he can’t deny Eskel’s gentle prodding actually does make him feel a bit better. It’s been a long time since he’s shared a room with his brother; Eskel insists Geralt takes the bed and sleeps on the floor, which is an odd feeling considering he has known him all his life and yet Jaskier, who he’s only had for a fraction of that time, has no qualms against sharing with the Witcher.

The next morning, he brings food and drink to Jaskier, along with Yennifer to help with his wounds. She prepared some potions the night before, all but forcing them down Jaskier’s throat.

“How do I know you’re not just going to poison me after all that?!” He complains, turning his nose up at the potion. “Why does it smell so bad?”

“Everything smells bad,” Geralt grumbles, though the bard seems satisfied by the answer. It’s a bit more true than he’d like it to be, honestly.

“Can we not just get this over with? I have more important things to attend to.” Yen says dismissively, shoving the bottle into his hands. Jaskier takes it with less complaints. And it surely can’t taste nearly as bad as what he had consumed over the past two weeks.

“Thank you, Yen.” Geralt says as she leaves the room. She doesn’t respond, unsurprisingly, and Jaskier roles his eyes at Geralt.

It makes him smile, fully smile, not like the usual smirks he gives. Seeing the bard be a little shit is about the best thing that could happen- it means he’s still himself. Jaskier looks a bit confused and a bit shocked to see the warmth practically radiating off of Geralt, but he smiles back.

“Jaskier, I need to ask you a few questions.” He says.

Jaskier shifts in the bed, making room for Geralt next to him and patting it. He doesn’t have to ask twice for the witcher to take the invite, even if it’s a little crowded, enough that their shoulders touch.

“How much do you remember?” after a night of sleep, most of it has come back to Geralt- specifically, his little confession, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous that the bard would remember.

“Not much, really… I mean, I remember how it felt. Holy shit, you never told me what you went through was so terrible, Geralt. And you did it by choice? It feels like it took a hundred years- how long was it?”

“Two weeks,” Geralt says bitterly. “I found you almost five days in. I-”

“Don’t,” Jaskier interrupts “It’s not your fault, and no you couldn’t have done better- no one could have, and yes I do know what I’m talking about.”

“Hm.” Is all he can say because in truth Jaskier had answered all the arguments he had lined up, and he knows that means Jaskier must remember everything from before the Trials if he knows him that well, but part of him still frets.

“I mostly remember you took care of me- you never left me that week and a half, did you?” he says softly. Warmth fills his eyes, pools of blue somehow impossibly more beautiful than they were before. They’re more intense, and the size of his pupil reacts to his emotions the way a cat’s would- something most Witchers trained themselves not to do. “Thank you.”

Geralt forces his gaze to wander away from Jaskier before he does something embarrassing like blush. Regardless, he still feels the warmth of the bard’s words in his heart. He can allow himself that. “It was the right thing to do. But I believe I was the one asking you questions.” He redirects.

“Of course, but why?” there’s something in his eyes that still teases the witcher, speaks of the intimacy between them that the bard has never been afraid to confront- Geralt, on the other hand...

“I need to know if your memory is okay.” He explains, making a conscious effort not to be too cold with his words. He imagines it might be startling to realize memory loss is a potential here.

“I remember everything like normal, promise.” Jaskier says, raising his hand as if he were pledging the to tell the truth to a royal court.

Geralt hums in response, thinking for a moment. He considered everything he could ask him yesterday, but questions about Jaskier’s family life aren’t exactly fun. And he’ll need to test his other basic functions as well. So, why not check as much as possible at once? At least, that’s how he’s justifying his request.

“I need you to sing a song.”

“Oh,” Jaskier practically blushes, “You never ask me to sing. I- I’d love to. Any special requests?”

He’s enjoying this a bit too much. Geralt decides not to emphasize that the request is only because he wants to make sure the bard’s brain isn’t fried; might as well give him this little joy.

“The first you wrote about our first adventure together.”

Jaskier begins singing that ridiculous embellished song about their adventure at _the Edge of the World_ without hesitation nor a lute to keep the rhythm. His voice is fine, the lyrics are right, and he can keep the beat- ears must work fine too. A wave of relief comes over him; Geralt is positive the poet has actually survived this ordeal and become a witcher. He lets him sing the whole song for that instead of cutting him off early, even though Geralt’s heard this one a million times.

It brings back memories of their meeting in that dusty little bar. That, and getting kicked in the gut by elves. He was so surprised such a fragile human would not only follow him, but not even complain after getting such a bloody welcome to the witcher life. Jaskier has always been stronger than he thought, but now he can truly be sure. How many trained at Kaer Morhen only to die in the trials? How many could not even begin the trials? And yet, unwillingly, his little lark came out alright.

When Jaskier finishes, he smiles brightly at Geralt “Is it my turn to ask questions now?”

“Yes, but only if they are about your mutations.”

“Of course, I’d never ask my very best friend a personal question,” he rolls his eyes. “Anyways, why aren’t I buffer now? Like you?”

Geralt snorts, his grin lighting up his eyes with joy.

\----

When Jaskier has used up all his questions and finds himself tired out again, Geralt leaves him to rest only to be greeted by Eskel and Yennifer waiting outside the room.

“Did you have him sing?” Eskel asks, smiling far too smugly.

“You said to quiz him on _barding_ ” Geralt grunts in response, giving his best glare. Apparently, it isn’t very convincing.

“Are you sure you just didn’t want to hear his voice?”

“Fuck you.”

Yennifer rolls her eyes at the boys. Geralt realizes he’s barely even looked at her since she arrived, his attention elsewhere. As usual, she’s dressed in black and white, long dark hair flowing behind her. Her bright purple eyes hold only an ounce of impatient for the two witchers in front of her. “Just curious, what was your plan now?”

“I’m guessing you have an idea, and you think it’s better than mine.” Geralt says honestly.

“Not better, perhaps just more refined.”

“We should take him to Kaer Morhen, talk to Vesemir- as long as Jaskier is okay with that.”

“Even if he’s not…” Eskel interjects.

Geralt tenses noticeably, but Yennifer answers instead “The little bird has had no problem chasing Geralt around worse places than that. I’m sure he will find it agreeable.”

Geralt grunts in response- a weak agreement. They’re both right. There’s no arguing it.

“And the sorcerer?” Yennifer asks, and he’s sure this is the part she has already figured out.

“Hm,” Geralt hums, as if he were to say anything, he would have to admit he has not thought about chasing after that sorcerer yet. His only concern was that he would come for Jaskier, looking to inspect his handiwork or try to use him for whatever scheme he might have cooked up.

Yennifer sighs, the way she does when she isn’t actually irritated and would rather just seem burdened “I see. You don’t suppose Kaer Morhen would have information left on the transformations?”

Eskel shoots Geralt a short, but apprehensive glance as he responds, “It is possible there is something in the old catacombs.”

“Then I will go and see what I can find.” She turns to Geralt, “Deal with the bard.”

Geralt opens his mouth to give her a snide response when he’s interrupted.

“I can hear you, you know.” Jaskier says, smiling triumphantly as he opens the door of his room. He doesn’t seem to be minding his new senses, _yet_. Though Geralt has a feeling that keeping secrets is going to become exponentially more difficult.

When Geralt glances back to Eskel and Yennifer, they’re already retreating to leave him alone with the bard. Jaskier opens the door wider, inviting him in.

“I thought you were tired.” Geralt says.

Jaskier shrugs “I am, but I couldn’t sleep if I tried. Being bed bound is getting far too boring.”

Geralt slinks back into the room with Jaskier’s invitation. The bard paces, but Geralt finds a seat on the edge of the bed; he must be getting old, because his body is still tired after the past week. 

“So, Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier says, clasping his hands together. “Guess I’m allowed to visit now I’m part of the witcher club.”

“We need to talk to Vesemir about what’s happened. He might have some good ideas about the sorcerer, and he’ll be able to help figure out exactly which mutations you’ve gone through.” He waits for a reaction, but Jaskier just nods his head “It’ll take a few days ride, and we might be there quite a while, but after you’ll be free to do whatever you want.”

Jaskier snorts, he looks back at Geralt in puzzlement. “And what do you mean by that?”

Geralt isn’t foolish. The mutations are truly one of the worst things a person can experience, and though Jaskier, always the optimist, might be cheery now, it will take him time to recover, to truly understand and accept what he is now. He’s no killing machine like most witchers, but he’s not human either. And he has Geralt to thank for that. Simply, Geralt wouldn’t blame him if he wanted some time apart… or… a lot of time apart.

“You have no obligation to hunt monsters or continue traveling with me if you don’t want to.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to go with you? I can join in on the action now that I’m a witcher-“

“You’re not a witcher.” Geralt says harshly, perhaps too harshly. “Not really. You went through the mutations, but we trained our whole lives, much longer lives than you’ve had. You can’t just dive headfirst into danger now. You’re not invincible.”

“Of course not, you’re not invincible either.”

“But I chose this path. You didn’t.” Geralt says firmly. “I’m just saying you don’t have to follow me around.”

Jaskier stops, and Geralt can see the hint of hurt in his eyes. “You make it sound like you don’t want me traveling with you. That’s not true, though, is it?”

“Of course not.” Geralt says quickly; he really ought to bite his tongue sometimes.

“Well, then you can’t really be mad at me for getting caught? I mean, maybe I shouldn’t have followed that cat, but-”

“There was a cat?” Geralt interrupts.

Jaskier suddenly catches himself, eyes wide like a child caught sneaking cookies from the cookie jar “Well, yes, but-”

“We’ll come back to that later. But it’s not your fault, and I’m not mad,” Geralt sighs heavily, finding himself too tired to sugarcoat the truth, “You keep getting hurt because of me. I would just understand if you wanted to stop taking risks after this one or if you needed a break.”

The edges of Jaskier’s mouth twitch up as any hurt washes away from expression to be replaced with that certain kind of understanding only the bard has for Geralt “I already told you to stop with that bullshit. It’s not your fault. Are you going to blame yourself for all the other victims, too, just because you’re a witcher and a sorcerer wants to make more witchers? Does a family dog need to take on the guilt of war hounds simply because they are distantly related? No, that’s ridiculous!”

 _Dogs_. Odd analogy, but it makes sense. Still…

“He wanted a witcher to find you- to do his dirty work. He chose you because of me, and this isn’t the first time, like the djinn-”

“Which inspired some of my best songs!” He smiles, “Besides, after the past two weeks, I’m excited to be traveling with you again. In my new state, maybe you can stop worrying so much.”

Geralt huffs “I don’t worry. And In your state, the only thing you can do is run faster when you hear danger coming.”

“Hmph,” Jaskier pouts, his bottom lip sticking out.

“But I can train you to do more- hone your abilities.”

Jaslier’s eyes light up, practically glowing like magical gems. He sits down next to Geralt, beaming as he bumps his shoulder against the witcher’s. “To Kaer Morhen, then?”

Geralt feels relief. Jaskier is a fool, but he’s a persistent one, and to know he isn’t running off after this is more comforting than it should be. Maybe he won’t have to worry so much…

“To Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says, the tiniest smile tugging at his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for everyone that's left kind comments or kudos! I'm having a lot of fun with this one, so it's been great to see some people are enjoying it too :)


	4. To Kaer Morhen, then?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to all the kind people who have left kudos or comments. I so appreciate each one of you! This is only the second piece I have written for this fandom, and I'm so excited to see how welcoming and encouraging everyone is :)
> 
> Whooo, we finally get to hear Jaskier's perspective!

No more portals, thank goodness. Geralt isn’t going to spend the winter without Roach at his side, so they’ll go to Kaer Morhen by foot now that Jaskier no longer seems to be in immediate danger. The three- or, two and a half witchers ride out with plans to meet her there in several days where they’ll discuss exactly what needs to be done about this sorcerer.

Jaskier tries very hard not to think, which means he spends most his time throughout the first day pestering the two witchers with him. Eskel has tales Jaskier has never heard before, which is exciting in itself. Somehow, it seems to make Geralt easier to drag stories out of- he’s probably just afraid Jaskier will start writing songs about other Witchers.

But.

He’s a witcher now, sort of.

There’s no time to sit down and contemplate the theoretical implications of this. He just has to be okay, or at least convince Geralt he’s okay, lest the brute blame himself again.

There’s all sorts of horrors lying dormant in the back of his mind. He doesn’t want to pull them up. Everything was a painful blur. Only spots of clarity flash through his mind, mostly of Geralt, but whatever happened before fills him with a type of terror he doesn’t want to relive. He’ll have to think on it more later, but not for now.

Once they set out, Jaskier and Geralt on Roach and Eskel on his own horse, he becomes more and more aware of how much Geralt _feels_. His hearing is sharper, that was evident right away, but out in the wild he suddenly picks up the sounds of everything: winds blowing, leaves bristling, and more ominously wild animals lurking just out of sight. A wolf howling in the distance sends a shiver down his spine. There’s some truth in saying ignorance is bliss. Knowing what is lying in wait around each twist and turn is unnerving.

Jaskier wraps his arms tighter around the Witcher in front of him. The close proximity inundates him with Geralt’s scent. Sure, he’s noticed how he smells before- something woodsy, warm and comforting, like home, but he’d never noticed the nuances of it; he can differentiate the sweet oils he used in his hair and the soaps they bathed with, distinctly different from his natural musk which is easier to pick up on than usual. It’s… _heavenly_. He can’t help but take in a deep breath, to hold it in his lungs and commit the smell to memory. That’s odd. _This is odd_ , he finds himself thinking.

\---

“If you fall on your ass because you fell asleep back there, I’m not stopping to pick you up out of the dirt,” Geralt says late into the evening, feeling Jaskier’s head press against his shoulder, his fingers idly plucking the strings of his lute.

“Perhaps if you were a better conversationalist, I wouldn’t fall asleep in your presence so often.” He jests, though it’s hardly the truth. The Witcher has become much more talkative in years past, and even if he can’t compare to Jaskier, what he does say matters.

Geralt scoffs, though there’s no real venom behind it. “Right, and what else can I do to please you, your highness?”

There’s a lot of things Jaskier would like Geralt to do to _please_ him, but none of those would be appropriate to discuss, so he chooses the next best thing.

“Ale,” the poet groans, just a bit of a flair for drama in his voice. “I would kill for some ale.”

Eskel snorts “Could go for a drink myself.”

Geralt huffs, a smile pulling at his lips “this’ll be the last town before we get there. Might as well stay the night.”

And isn’t that the most beautiful thing Jaskier’s heard in a long time?

The prospect of sleeping on a real bed with a stomach full of warm food and, more importantly, ale excites Jaskier more than it probably should. And music! Oh, how he revels in the thought of performing after so long.

When they enter the inn, it’s crowded as usual. A novice bard plays one of Jaskier’s songs loudly in the corner. It makes him chuckle to think the musician doesn’t seem to recognize the artist nor the muse of what he sings as they walk past him. Geralt finds a booth in the darkest corner of the bar, pulling Jaskier in to sit next to him.

It’s noisy. _So noisy_. He feels like he can hear every voice in the whole room all at once. The thrumming of music which used to calm him feels drowned out by cackling drunk men and whispering gossipers. He can hear someone comment on “the freaks” in the corner, but he can’t seem to place who it was that said it, and he’s distracted by a conversation a few tables over before he can figure it out. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to start swinging his lute at people right now, but by the gods he’s becoming more irritated by the second.

“I’ll order us some food and drinks,” Eskel says over the music, “Jaskier, do you want one or two ales?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond, his mind too busy to process the question as his eyes flicker around the room.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says firmer.

“Oh, uh, yes- sorry.” He stutters in response.

Both Eskel and Geralt give him a concerned glance, Geralt turning to say “one”, but Jaskier doesn’t know why- never caught what they were talking about, but he takes it he gave the wrong answer.

Eskel leaves to get food for them instead of pushing further. Geralt, on the other hand, stares at him for some time, seems to be looking for signs of distress- which he has plenty of.

Jaskier once fell in a coffin- it wasn’t for long really, but the confined space almost got to him. This feels a lot like that, but it’s noise and movement and all the people around him which make him feel trapped.

“You sure you’re okay?” Geralt asks finally.

It’s silly, but watching his golden eyes intently gives Jaskier something to ground himself with, seems to drown out some of the background noise, so he tries to focus on that, on Geralt’s eyes and the expression on his face, the way his eyebrows knit together as he leans in toward the bard.

“I’m fine, just a bit tired. Perhaps the food will help! I haven’t had ale in ages…” he smiles, not too convincingly.

Geralt doesn’t look like he actually believes the answer, but he accepts it. He doesn’t seem to mind that Jaskier shoots closer, pressing their shoulders together in some weak attempt to cling to that feeling he found in Geralt’s eyes.

Thankfully, food and drinks are soon on their table. Jaskier wastes no time taking down as much as he can. _Odd_ , he doesn’t seem to have much of a reaction after drinking a whole ale on an empty stomach. It actually does very little to dull his surroundings as he had hoped. Perhaps that’s why he notices Eskel and Geralt have both had two before long, the first going down like a needed medicine, and the second to be enjoyed.

Jaskier contemplates having another, but that would mean staying here longer. He doesn’t process half of what the witchers are saying, and he feels like his sanity will escape him any minute.

“Well,” he says, interrupting whatever Eskel had been saying as he stands up. “This has been fun, but I really ought to retire. I’m just a bit worn out from- from-” words begin escaping him, and Jaskier can’t seem to focus long enough to retrieve his thought.

“Third room on the left. I’ll be there soon,” Geralt very kindly offers him.

“Yes, great. Thanks,” he mutters, excusing himself to run up the stairs and to their room as inconspicuously as possibly.

The little room is the usual when it comes to bars and inns; they all really begin to blur together after awhile. Creaky thin floors only marginally block out the noises from below them. Cheap ratty carpets decorate the floor, a single bed just barely big enough for two is sparsely surrounded by furniture: one rickety chair, a chest for belongings, oh and this one has a mirror!

Jaskier stops in front of it, leaning closer to inspect his face. His appearance really isn’t different aside from the brightening of his eyes and the change in his pupil’s shape. It’s not bad, he finds himself thinking. Actually, it’s quite stunning. He had always thought Geralt’s eyes were the most gorgeous, but he’s happy to be different. Apparently less conspicuous, too. No one seemed to comment on his appearance, but the lack of swords and facial scars help too. So, that’s a plus at least.

Jaskier sighs, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “What have I gotten myself into?” He murmurs, pulling out his lute. He finds himself strumming a familiar song, then another, then something new. He will have to write a song about himself now, won’t he? The bards furious fight with a sorcerer… hm, that’s definitely one to embellish. Maybe less body fluids mentioned…

Doing what he loves best, he doesn’t seem to notice the noises around him anymore. The panic that tightened his chest and all but crawled up his throat dissipates, and he finds an easy smile on his face again.

By the time Geralt comes up to their room, the bard has ink stained papers around him, lyrics chaotically covering parchment, far too many lines scratched out, but that’s all part of the process.

“Geralt!” He smiles, earning a soft, yet still concerned one in return.

“Having fun, little lark?”

That nickname has always sent butterflies right to his stomach. A poet and a bard, Jaskier has many nicknames and monikers, ‘Jaskier’ being one. However, little lark, as rare as it is to hear on Geralt’s tongue, is his very most favorite. It puts color on his cheeks every time, especially when used in such a genuine fashion rather than the typical sarcastic comment.

“As always, my dearest friend.”

“You should get some rest,” Geralt says, glancing at him as he throws his things on the nearby chest.

Jaskier puts the lute down, determined to argue even if Geralt is right “I’m fine. Isn’t this whole witcher thing supposed to make me need less sleep?”

“Even witchers need rest after the Trials. It requires recovery.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Jaskeir folds, mostly because he is tired, but what fun would it be if he never egged Geralt on?

He plops on the bed unceremoniously while Geralt fusses with his swords- or tends to them- _Whatever_. As soon as he pulls the soft blankets over himself, he realizes exactly how exhausted he is. Except, Jaskier finds sleep doesn’t come quickly. No, he tosses and turns, still awake behind closed eyes when Geralt slips into bed, far enough away they’re not touching but close enough Jaskier can feel his body heat. He has always loved staying in inns for that very reason, his heart fluttering just a little at their proximity.

He thought that familiar presence might help, but time passes for much longer and he still feels restless.

“Are you okay?” Geralt finally asks, rolling on his side to look at Jaskier, his golden eyes illuminated by moonlight streaming through their windows.

Is he? It’s not exactly his thoughts that are keeping him up, though those are never helpful. This time, it’s the noises. There’s noise everywhere. And smells. He can hear the stomping of feet downstairs; the sound every time some drunk idiot clunks his beer against the table after taking a sip; the squeaking of the mattress in the room next to them as the person sleeping on it rolls in their sleep; and he can smell every horrid thing in this room.

“I’m just not used to feeling so much.”

“Hm,” Geralt hums understandingly.

“I see why you long for silence after we have been in towns for too long. How do you ever get sleep with so- so much sensation!?” he asks, exasperated and overwhelmed all at once.

“Try to focus.”

“Focus? I want to be unconscious!” the bard complains.

“Focus on one noise, one constant sound, one smell. It will help you drown out the rest of it.”

Jaskier practically whimpers in absolute frustration. _Gods, this is annoying_. His body feels so on edge. Suddenly, it makes sense why Geralt gets so nippy about needing silence so often. He feels a bit embarrassed about how insensitive he had been to the witcher’s needs in the past. By now, it wasn’t much of a problem, but in the beginning… Oh well.

He tries to do as Geralt said, zones in on different noises, trying to pick one: Footsteps downstairs? No, too inconsistent. The rattling of the sign in the wind outside? Eh, too high pitched for his liking. Then, his ears focus in on something closer- he hadn’t realized, but in this focused state, he can hear Geralt’s heartbeat. It’s slower, deeper sounding than it should be, but that’s a witcher for you- or so he’d been told. There’s something so soothing about the closeness of it, the reassurance he isn’t alone, too. Jaskier decides that’s it, that’s what he wants to fall asleep listening to- maybe not just tonight, maybe every night for as long as he lives.

\----------

They’re sure to camp regularly this time. Jaskier notices the dark circles under Geralt’s eyes starting to fade. His own strength returns to him much quicker than he expected with regular food and drink supplied. He enjoys it, the normality of it, taking full advantage of the time to play his lute and relax a bit.

The second night, when Eskel has left to hunt for their dinners, Jaskier and Geralt sit around a cackling fire. He can see better in the dark now, and he knows Geralt has potions that make him- them be able to see fully even in pitch black of night. He’s been pondering that a lot, actually- the details of his state.

Jaskier’s fingers slow on the lute strings he had been plucking so that the sound comes out slow and quiet, the tip of his tongue sticking out just slightly as he thinks. “What does this mean for me?” he finally asks curiously.

“What are you talking about?” Geralt replies flatly, never taking his eyes off the fire. “I’m not a mind reader. You need to be more specific.”

“I mean, as a witcher. What’s going to change about me- what has changed? Aside from the obvious, I mean. I don’t feel the way I always thought you did. You’re very fast and strong- or I mean you-”

Geralt, thankfully, cuts him off before he says anything too embarrassing about his strength, or muscles, or- “Many of your changes are potentials. You have to hone them to make the difference matter.”

“Well, I mean are there less obvious ones?”

Geralt tilts his head, turning to Jaskier as if a thought had just hit him “You’re going to live a long time- granted you can keep out of trouble,” He smirks, the points of his canines visible in the light of the fire.

“You’re going to have to deal with me for a lot longer than you expected, hm? Lucky you!” Jaskier grins.

Geralt sighs, but he can see the fondness in his eyes and the way his shoulders seem to relax as if some hidden burden had been taken off him. “A hundred more years of your bullshit? I might lose my mind.”

Jaskier gasps, “You should be _honored_ , you overgrown brute!”

Every night, Geralt sits down with him and tries to teach him something or tell him about his Witcher abilities. He talks about meditation, but they both seem to find Jaskier meditating unlikely. He shows him how to change the dilation or his pupils, focus his hearing, and tests Jaskier’s reaction times. They’re all little things, and Jaskier is quite bad at all of them, but he enjoys it anyways. Geralt is patient and kind with him, more so than usual.

That’s the way Geralt is, though. There is no greater man than him, Jaskier is convinced. He does everything for anyone who asks, even if they despise him, simply because he cares so dearly about doing what’s right. He has a particularly soft heart for kind ‘monsters’. Jaskier once saw him paint a chicken for a friendly troll just to humor him. Jaskier laughed until he cried that day, in part because of the absurdity of the situation, but mostly because of how ugly Geralt’s chicken was.

He’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s kind to kind people, that’s the point. And Jaskier could not be more thankful to have such a true friend as Geralt. He’s no fool, blind to his emotions. After all, a poet who could not confront his feelings would be like a witcher without swords or signs to fight with- he’s very aware of the feelings he has for Geralt. But even if he has always longed for more, so much more, at least he has this. For all Geralt has done recently, he will have to surely thank him well. Perhaps Jaskier will write a beautiful poem, make it cryptic, and hide within its words the truth of how his heart feels, longs for another so purely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally included their arrival to Kaer Morhen in this chapter, but then it got too long, so I guess the next chapter will be up soon!
> 
> If you're curious about the timeline of previous events in this au:
> 
> I have completely twisted the it in this au. I just don't have the patience for Geralt and Jaskier to know each other for TWENTY TWO YEARS before they get together. It honestly makes me sad for them. Take it as you will, but I'm just going to pretend most of the events happened in a shorter period of time, with the exception that the banquet in Cintra would've been shortly before this. Basically, the djinn would happen after a few years of knowing each other, Geralt gets together with Yennifer then breaks up (but absolutely does not yell at Jaskeir on a mountain because I'm writing him more like game Geralt who openly cares about and protects his dumb bard). Just my thoughts. It honestly works too if you want to take this as happening in the canon timeline.


	5. Cats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just played the quest line at Kaer Morhen in Wild Hunt recently, and honestly it made me so excited we finally got to this point. I have some very fluffy scenes coming up soon and, of course, sibling chaos with Geralt, Lambert and Eskel.

A few days pass when they finally make it to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier can tell they’re getting close the higher up they go into the mountains. Clouds hang low and fog fills their surroundings in the morning where barely-there paths, nearly overgrown from under-use, take them through twists and turns of green forests. Atop a hill, he can just make out the shape of a large castle in the distance like a precious gem nestled in the middle of a crown mountains that span as far as the eye can see- higher ones already have snow capping them while others are mostly green from the autumn’s rain.

Geralt spends most winters training at Kaer Morhen. While the separation was saddening at times, it seemed good for him to see his fellow wolves. During that time, Jaskier tried actually attending the classes he took at Oxenfurt. Eventually, he began teaching in winters while the Witcher was away. Guess that won’t be happening this year…

Once they approach, the old rickety gate groans and screeches as it’s raised before them, the famed ancient Witcher Vesemir waiting behind it. He’s much different than Geralt, with round features, a quite large nose, and a friendly smile. his hair is greyed with age, not the pure white of the White Wolf’s. If Jaskier didn’t know he was a Witcher, he would have taken him for someone in his 60s. The again, if he didn’t know Geralt was a Witcher, he would’ve assumed he was thirty or so.

Another dark haired Witcher strolls behind him, in no hurry to greet them. He has scars across the left side of his face, but not nearly as severe as Eskel’s. He’s sporting a dark beard and short hair. This one Jaskier has met- Lambert. He’s the youngest of the four and a bit of an ass. Geralt always gets frustrated with his constant snarky remarks and cynicism, so much so it makes Jaskier seem like a pleasantry on his worst days. Still, they’re siblings at heart, and what is a brother if you don’t hate them sometimes?

Geralt all but jumps off of Roach to greet Vesemir, a wide smile across his face as they shake hands- do witchers not hug?? Is that a thing? It must be, since Eskel follows suit.

Jaskier stands back and simply watches as if collecting notes for his next song or book- perhaps he is…

“Didn’t expect to see you get here together- muchless with a friend.” Vesemir smiles “though when the sorceress showed up a few days ago demanding access to my library, I knew it was only time before you joined us.”

“Yen is here already?” Geralt asks curiously.

“Indeed, seemed to have no troubles taking over the guest quarters, though she hasn’t told us what this is all about.”

“We ran into some trouble in Velen,” Geralt explains. He almost looks surprised they haven’t figured it out. Jaskier certainly is. Geralt turns to him, beckoning the bard closer. “You remember Jaskier.”

Jaskier peers around Geralt, waving casually and giving his best smile “Hello! I’ve heard so much about you! It’s nice to finally meet the whole family. And good to see you again, Lambert,” he begins to ramble but as Vesemir and Lambert’s faces begin to twist in confusion, he suddenly finds himself uneasy under their stares.

“Bard,” Lambert responds, but his voice is wary.

“What happened? Or- what was done to him?” Vesemir finally asks, alarm in his voice.

“Done to him.” Geralt says flatly “Seems there’s a sorcerer on the loose looking to revive the witcher mutations- kidnaps his test subjects.”

“Fuck,” Lambert mutters. “When?”

“It _ended_ about four days ago.” Geralt replies. Jaskier isn’t sure if he should be offended or not that everyone looks so surprised he survived.

Vesemir steps forward, looking closer as if checking Jaskier for some sort of issues or warning signs. “Hm, eyes aren’t supposed to look like that,” he touches his medallion idly, checking for the telltale warning of magic “but he’s not cursed”

“You think we didn’t already consider that?” Geralt snaps.

 _We considered that!?_ Jaskier has to push down his urge to react, but that’s certainly news to him.

“Woah, someone’s on edge,” Lambert snarks.

Eskel rolls his eyes, grumbling as well “You don’t even know the half of it.”

Yes, while Geralt has been more than accommodating to Jaskier, he hasn’t always had kind words for everyone else. The whole event has seemed to put him on edge.

“How’s his personality?” Vesemir asks, ignoring the younger witchers’ quarrel.

He’s heard all the rumors witcher’s don’t have emotions, but they all do. Jaskier just assumed it was a nasty myth or a result of their training. “Why would my personality-?”

“Normal.” Geralt interrupts “Never quiet. He already wrote a song about his trials. Ran out of ways to say puke so he started inventing new words.”

Vesemir smirks, “Well, what are they?”

“Yartz, for one!” Jaskier pipes up, ready to play the song if need be- of course, it’s only a draft, but he’ll always take feedback.

“Vesemir,” Geralt cuts in, this time his voice shows just a fraction of concern. Most wouldn’t pick up on it, but there’s a certain strain there that isn’t present when he’s just mad or irritated.

“I thought that was a good one, just for the record.” Eskel murmurs, ignoring Geralt’s frustration.

“Fine, fine, let’s take this inside,” Vesemir shrugs, turning to gesture toward the castle “We’ll have to draw blood if you want a proper check-up done.”

\---

All of Kaer Morhen is dilapidated to some extent. Parts of the walls crumble in the courtyard, old stables that were once filled with dozens of horses lie empty, and vines and moss creep up to cover all the surfaces they can. Yet, it is truly beautiful like something out of a story or legend- in a way, it is. Jaskier gawks, only attempting to take it all in as Vesemir ushers them inside where they can rest from their long journey while they discuss matters further.

He brings them to some sort of common room, a large living room of stone floors and walls, well furnished- or, better furnished than Jaskier had expected anyways. The old flooring is made of intricate red tiles, once polished and prized, it was likely an amazing sight to see- and an expensive one. The state of the castle goes a long way to make a visual commentary on the shift in the witchers’ position in society over the years…

Vesemir says he needs a blood sample, gods know that’ll help with. If it were anyone else, Jaskier might refuse, but the eldest witcher knows much about alchemy and the Trials. From what Geralt’s said of Vesemir, he will likely test it’s reactions from other potions and elements and such and come back with an alarmingly detailed insight about Jaskeir. Hopefully nothing too personal…

He sticks a needle in his arm, draining blood into a vial. It doesn’t hurt as much as Jaskier had expected. He can’t quite tell if his feelings are dulled, or if nothing will ever hurt much again in comparison to the Trials.

Once he’s done, Jaskier makes no waste of time plopping down on the most comfortable looking couch in the room, plush and worn out velvet, sure, but good enough after all the horse riding. Geralt chooses to pace- his loss. 

Lambert and Eskel linger, obviously pretending they aren’t listening as Vesemir continues to quiz Geralt and Jaskier- though, mostly Geralt. He begins with what exactly happened and then shifts to questions about Jaskier. It’s strange to watch Geralt answer them all, but Jaskier finds he actually didn’t know the right answer to most things.

“What mutations is he presenting?”

“Enhanced hearing, healing, better reflexes, the eyes- haven’t had a chance to test much else,” he shrugs.

“Should’ve made him run after the horse,” Vesemir jokes, much to Jaskier’s dismay.

The bard frowns, a vague memory of doing just that in their very first few weeks traveling together. “Please, do not give him ideas.”

Yes, Geralt didn’t exactly jump at the chance to have his very own bard to follow him and chronicle his footsteps. More so, he was viciously protective of Roach. Jaskier supposes Roach was his only constant friend outside of these three witchers. Others came and went, but no one ever stayed like Jaskier does.

Roach didn’t warm up to him right away either, at least until he started bringing her little treats and snacks behind Geralt’s back. Much like her owner, she can be quite aggressive with strangers, actually. Jaskier’s seen her kick or bite at a few men over the years, never children or women. Jaskier likes to think it’s because the townsmen are always the ones that start trouble with Geralt and Roach wants to protect him.

The older witcher shrugs “He seems fine to me- the eyes, though… could be the mutation process or a side effect.”

“An awfully fortunate one,” Eskel muses “Remember Cöan?”

“Did he lose his eyes?!” Jaskier gasps, suddenly feeling very lucky about getting out of his situation mostly intact.

He hears a few of the witchers huff in amusement, and he can’t help but think Geralt’s reluctance to let himself laugh openly is hereditary. Either that or theres something in the air.

“He’d be a shit witcher if he did,” Geralt explains, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “His body just didn’t react well. The whites of his eyes turned red and his irises are unusually pale.”

“Most people found him even more repulsive than the rest of us,” Lambert adds, not even attempting to hide the bitterness in his voice.

For some reason the comment makes Geralt shift uncomfortably. The movement is small, and Jaskier wonders if anyone else noticed. Then again, he tends to stare at Geralt more than other people… The witcher glances away from Jaskier, gluing his eyes to the window, his jaw clenching visibly. He watches as Geralt ever so subtly takes in a deep breath before releasing it, his shoulders going lax as he does. Jaskier has watched him do that many times before, typically when a villager upsets him or says something particularly stupid he doesn’t wish to confront in the moment.

“But,” Vesemir continues, apparently oblivious, “Each school had their own mages and approaches to mutations. This sorcerer certainly wasn’t from the Wolf School.”

A silence falls over the room as the others seem to think. He can almost hear Geralt going through schools in his mind. What were the options again? Jaskier recalls Geralt mentioning Griffons, and they met a Serpent once…

“There was a cat- you mentioned something about a cat earlier, Jask.” Geralt pipes up finally, seeming to push past whatever had perturbed him.

“Oh, yea. I mean, we were staying at the Seven Cats Inn, which is named for its seven cats, obviously, and I thought I’d met them all- Betsy, Fifi, Sven-” Jaskier begins recounting.

“Jaskier,” Geralt cuts in firmly. “The point.”

“Well, I saw a black cat with these bright eyes I had never noticed before. I thought maybe they were just a newcomer or I had missed them earlier, so I figured I should say hello. They seemed friendly enough, but it sort of lured me to a back alley.”

He gets a snarky chuckle from Lambert for that one. “How does a cat lure a man?”

“Every time I pet it, it moved away and started meowing, like it wanted me to follow it. So, I did!” Jaskier throws his hands up.

Is it such a crime to like animals? Okay, maybe it sounds foolish when he says it out loud, but monster hunting involves so many ugly things. And while the poet finds each one fascinating from a scholarly standpoint, who would blame him for enjoying something cute and fluffy every now and then?

“Back alley have a wall covered in dead vines?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier nods “But they weren’t dead when I was there. Don’t really know what happened after that, just that I woke up where you found me.”

Geralt turns to Vesemir, “Gonna go out on a limb here and say he’s a cat. Haven’t known sorcerers to be subtle with their work.”

“Perhaps,” Vesemir ponders this for moment. “It would be a good place to start looking if we are to discover who this mystery sorcerer is.”

There’s a long silence between them as they all seem to be thinking the same thing that none want to voice. The tension in the air feels thick enough that any of them could cut through the air with their blades. And if it’s about what Jaskier thinks it is, he’s not happy about it.

Finally, Vesemir speaks up, “Who would like to tell the sorceress rummaging through my library?”

Lambert scoffs, “She’s Geralt’s girlfriend.”

“ _Not_ my girlfriend,” he spits back, normally laxed pupils constricting into sharp, thin lines. It’s always fascinating to see how his eyes respond to his emotions- when he allows them to.

Even with Geralt’s objection, it upsets Jaskier to hear that term. It upsets him that everyone seems to remember her as Geralt’s lover. So much so he’s upset at himself for ever writing about them. Perhaps if he didn’t, he’d never have to hear about Yennifer of Vengerberg ever again!

What makes it worse is how often they have to see her. If it weren’t for that stupid wish, perhaps they would have been done with her by now. But she still pops up every now and then, dragged back by fate or destiny or whatever demonic force insists Jaskier must be reminded that Geralt chose her. And maybe he will always choose her, even if they argue and bicker and quarrel till the end of time, perhaps Geralt will always have feelings for her.

Jaskeir tries to shake off those thoughts, but the damage is already done- he can feel that sinking hopeless feeling in his gut, in his heart.

“Alright, alright, it’s just a fuckin joke. Lighten up, old man.” Lambert puts his hands up in mock surrender “but she’s been insufferable since she got here- acts like she owns the place. Do something about it.”

Geralt sighs, “ _fine_.”

“I’ll go with you,” Jaskier offers, if for no reason other than to observe the situation- right, observe. He’s not at all eager to ensure they don’t act too friendly. Right?

But Geralt shakes his head “That’ll make her worse. Besides, I’m sure _Uncle Vesemir_ has some more tests for you,” He says mockingly.

\-------

He’d need to talk to her alone eventually. The past few weeks have just been such a whirlwind. Geralt finds her exactly where Vesemir mentioned, held up in the library as she flips through books, her own supplies already filling the space.

“Yennifer?” he calls.

Tall and incredibly dusty bookshelves cover the wall in front of her. Faded books and cobwebs mostly decorate this room. It’s been converted into a sort of work room for the witchers these days, Lambert’s homemade beer brewing in a corner, an autopsy table for particularly odd creatures elsewhere, Vesemir’s desk and other trinkets lying around. It was once immaculate, he remembers. Now, peeling mosaics of witchers fighting dragons slowly fade from tall walls as time erases what this place once was.

He wonders at times why they even have some of the supplies here, as most are filled with oppressively ideological misconceptions of non-human creatures- that’s likely why they’ve survived this long, though. Then again, he vaguely remembers Vesemir making him write exposition on the contrastive viewpoints of authors to illustrate the inconsistency of human knowledge. The memory of his studies almost makes him shudder- and to think Jaskier writes for fun…

“You’re useless librarians; this place is a mess and Lambert has been no help locating what I need- and who would have known there could be anyone more sarcastic in the School of the Wolf than you. It’s remarkable, honestly.” She fusses.

“Sorry about that” he replies half convincingly, far too used to her remarks by now.

Yennifer puts down the book she was holding, finally turning to face him. “Do you have something for me?”

“We think we have a lead.” Though he’s not entirely sure what good it’ll do. Jaskier is safe for now and she already helped him enough that he’ll owe her to do whatever indiscriminate job she has next.

“Didn’t you want to ask something- why I’m here?”

Geralt shifts where he stands. Ah. She read his thoughts. _Wonderful_. He’s always hated that, always will.

“I assume it’s not just to help Jaskier, seeing as you showed up as late as you did.” He says bluntly. If she wants the truth she can have it. He heard about her little stunt with Eskel. It shouldn’t have been that hard to get to her.

“First of all, you don’t expect me to be suspicious when you send some man I’ve never met after me?! I’m not going to assume every witcher headed my way is a friend of yours asking for help.” She glowers, always good at showing her claws. “And Second, even if I showed up five minutes after the Trial of the Grasses started, there would have been nothing I could do. If it was so simple do you not think mages would have saved more witchers in the past?”

Geralt grunts, a little sheepishly after being put in his place, “Sorry.” Perhaps that was a little unfair of him. It’s just-

“You’re more codependent with that bard than I remember…” she mutters, mostly to herself, eyes drifting back to the book in her hands. There’s almost a hint of melancholy there or something similar he can’t place.

Geralt doesn’t say anything, and mercifully she redirects the topic, seeming to sense his discomfort. “This sorcerer is very old and powerful- not that I’d consider him a threat, but I’d like to know what he has planned with all this. I have reason to believe he might have a relic I’ve been looking for.”

“So, you’ll help us in exchange for this relic.”

“Simple enough,” she says, gesturing loosely, “ I’m not heartless though, you know.”

Geralt nods his head, a beat of silence falling between them before she speaks again, something softer filling her eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Yen.” He replies, a little too hastily.

“Don’t make me read your mind again.” She pushes. He’s still not sure what this is between them; they’re no longer lovers, and they fight every time they see each other, but sometimes she surprises him by caring. _Sometimes_.

He grimaces, but the looming threat of mind reading enough to force him to be honest. “It’s just a lot. I experienced the mutations myself, remember Lambert coming out of it, but I never watched them until now.” He pauses, not sure if he’s ready to admit what has been on his mind recently.

“And you’re afraid he will hate what he is? Like the ignorant villagers hate non-humans?”

“I thought you said you wouldn’t read my mind.” He snaps back. That’s exactly it though. Jaskier will have to face that anywhere someone learns what he is. How noticeable Jaskier is has yet to be seen, but someone will have to see eventually. Even if they don’t, all the words he’s heard about witchers will no longer be about just Geralt but him too.

“Didn’t have to,” she shrugs.

“He didn’t choose this.”

“He chose to follow you. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Hm,” _perhaps_.

———

By the time Geralt finds Jaskier again, Vesemir has finished checking his reflexes, the dilation of his pupils, his reaction to silver and so on. Once satisfied that Jaskier was indeed a witcher, he left to conduct whatever other experiments he has planned.

Jaskier sits on a plush rug on the ground, strumming his lute, listening idly as Eskel and Lambert catch up. He’s quite alarmed to hear Lambert speak of killing so much more indiscriminately than Geralt or Eskel. He learned the hard way not to comment on it when a passing mention of “Geralt normally spares friendly creatures,” earned him a severe rebuttal of “I don’t give a fuck what Geralt does,”. He doesn’t mind, and Lambert doesn’t actually mean any harm. He’s just like that.

Geralt approaches, sighing as he smoothes his hair down with his hand.

“Ah, you survived,” Eskel jokes “what are her plans?”

“She’s going for portal out to where the Cat School last was and see if she can find information.”

“Good.” Jaskier interjects, a little too forcefully.

Geralt doesn’t reprimand him, but a questioning eyebrow is raised in his direction. “It’ll free us up to deal with your…” he trails off, gesturing instead a bit wildly to Jaskier in general.

Jaskier nods “Right. So, what exactly does witcher training entail?”

“A lifetime of rigorous training and studying. Guess you’ll be here awhile.” Lambert says flatly just to see the bard squirm, his questioning eyes flickering back to Geralt.

Geralt shoots a glare at Lambert “Don’t worry about that. We don’t need to make you a monster hunter just yet. You only need to gain control over your basic senses.”

“Right, and what does it mean, I’m a cat? I mean, I know the schools are different, and Vesemir said the mutigens had varying effects, but what are the implications of that?”

“Gotta make sure you’re not a psychopath,” Lamber leers. Next to him, Eskel shakes his head, glaring at the youngest witcher.

“Lambert.” Geralt hisses, “ _Enough_.”

Jaskier looks back at Geralt, a bit of panic in his eyes “What does he mean?”

Geralt sighs, shaking his head. “It’s nothing to worry about. The cats are just well known for the way the mutation process alters their emotions. While most witcher schools’ process for the Trials results in less emotions, or at least better controlled emotions- clearly not in this case here,” he snarls, gesturing to Lambert before continuing “The cat school’s process typically enhanced the emotions of their witchers. They had an alarming number of… unpleasant characters. However, there are plenty that turned out just fine.”

“Do I need to be concerned?” Jaskier asks, suddenly reconsidering everything he’s felt in the past few days. Has he gone crazy? _Is_ he crazy??

“No,” Geralt replies firmly. “You’re just as dramatic as normal. I know you- You’re a danger to society, but you’re fine.”

“Excuse me?” Jaskier gasps

“I don’t know how many people I’ve seen you smack with a lute. That’s not the point, though. If there was a change, it would have been immediate. A large contributing factor to their rate of-” Geralt stops, the words cut off in his throat.

“ _Pschopaths_ ,” Jaskier fills in when Geralt won’t say it.

“It’s because they were trained to feed off of their anger.”

“And there’s plenty to be angry about in witcher school,” Lambert adds, watching Geralt’s reaction closely. This time, he doesn’t jump in with a rebuttal, actually, he’s tenser than usual.

Jaskier is beginning to wonder just how much about Geralt’s childhood and upbringing at Kaer Morhen he has been hiding from him. And how much it affects him still. He knew things were less than ideal, but how bad was it?

“Come on,” Geralt says, extending his hand to help Jaskier up “I’ll show you to your room.”

Jaskier takes the offer happily. Even if it is just a helping hand, it’s most often Jaskier reaching out to touch Geralt, so the reversal is more than welcome. Besides, there’s something about feeling the White Wolf’s strong and calloused hand grip his that bring just the slightest tinge of warmth to his cheeks.

Geralt leads him toward one of the towers where all the rooms are. As they begin to climb the twisting wooden stairs which creak from age, he speaks up. “Don’ let him bother you.”

“My dear witcher, I have been traveling with you for a decade. A cactus could not bother me with it’s prickles by now.”

The slightest hint of a smile appears on Geralt’s face “Good.”

Once they get to a wooden door a few floors up, Geralt stops. “This is your room. Mine is at the very top through the big doors. If you need anything-”

“I know” Jaskier finishes for him. He can always ask. Doesn’t mean he will get anything, but he can ask.

“I’m going to get cleaned up and head down for dinner. You should do the same.” Geralt says, watching carefully as Jaskier nods his head, reaching out to open the door. Geralt stops him, though, a firm hand on his arm. “Seriously, Jask. You’re fine. I know you well. I would have noticed if something was off. I- um,”

The sincerity in his golden eyes makes Jaskier’s stomach feel like it’s doing flips, but even more the shyness there. “You were keeping an eye on me, weren’t you?” he beams, suddenly filled with joy to think Geralt would be so concerned- so distraught at the idea of Jaskier changing that he watched and checked off each personality trait carefully over the past few days.

The witcher looks away, diverting his eyes that way he does when he doesn’t want to admit something “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t become more of a shit than you already are.” He grumbles, very unconvincingly.

“Oh, the gentle hearted wolf- you would miss my bodacious personality if anything were to happen.”

All he gets in return is a dismissive grunt as Geralt turns away, continuing up the stairs to his room. But that’s to be expected; the wolf can only take so much prodding. No matters, Jaskier certainly feels triumphant, as sweet smile remaining on his face for quite awhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone’s a little prickly in this chapter, but that’s what character growth is for (in case you were wondering if Jaskier will always hate Yennifer or if Lambert and Geralt ever get along)
> 
> I've been able to write and post quite a bit lately, but there might be some time (less than a week) between chapters as I'm supposed to be working on my master's thesis. 
> 
> And again, thank you for anyone who left kudos or kind comments. You're all the best <3


	6. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mild torture, I guess- the first part describes Jaskier's perspective of waking up after he was kidnapped. The beginning and end are marked with asterisks (***********) incase anyone wants to skip!

***************

Somewhere, in the depths of his dreams, the smell of mildew fills his senses and cold damp dungeon floors make his limbs ache, hard and unforgiving underneath his body. Hazy sounds of speaking, of clinking of glass vials, and the chanting of a spell reach him as Jaskier comes to consciousness. His eyes flutter open, only able to take in dark blurry surroundings. Dim candles light the room, cold and earthy wherever they are.

He opens his mouth to yell, to tell this fucker he’ll regret touching a witcher’s bard, but nothing comes out. He’s struck with sudden fear, true fear, for Geralt is not here, and he has nothing to negotiate with.

In the panic, he tries to move, to get up and pull away, but metal restraints dig in against his skin. And as the voice continues to speak, Elder words slipping out like deep dark promises, his body begins to feel weak, weaker by the second until even moving feels impossible.

He looks around, eyes searching the room for answers, but all he finds is a tall and unknown figure standing in front of him, draped in cloth like darkness itself. Nearly white irises stare back at him coldly. It’s hard to focus, hard to resist. All he can do is focus on breathing. Just breathe. But panic crawls up his throat.

Jaskier has been caught many times before, including the first adventure he ever had with Geralt. Somehow, this feels _very_ different. It’s not an enraged creature looking for revenge or a hungry monster looking for a meal. No, this was cold and calculated.

He watches in horror as silently the figure makes an incision in his arm, opening his veins to whatever experiment he has planned- it stings, the pain making him wince helplessly. Jaskier swallows thickly, eyeing three potions of vivid color sitting nearby. He expected to have them forced down his throat, but rather, the man begins to recite another spell. He lifts his hand, and with it the potions float into the air toward where the sorcerer made his incision.

Jaskier feels his heart rate speed faster, faster, faster. His breathing hard to control, he tries to pull away, to fight, to get out of here- wherever this is. Whatever it will do, he doesn’t want to find out. He’s seen the victims of sorcerer’s experiments gone wrong: terrible disease, horrid mutations, torture and pain. He can’t become like that- not like this. If anything had to happen, he’d rather get eaten by a monster, something quick that would make a good story. But not this. And not _alone_.

But when the potions meet his arm, all logical thought escapes him. Pain like he has never known sears through his body as he feels the potions begin to travel through his veins, spreading with them chaos and agony. And he tries to scream, oh gods does he, but nothing comes out. The purple light of the sorcerer’s spell illuminates the room, but nothing matters, nothing can be done or seen or felt or heard outside of the burning aching pain pulsating throughout his being.

***************

With a gasp, Jaskier startles awake, fear still in his eyes. His hands grip the soft sheets of his bed, his hair sticking to his forehead from sweat- It was a night terror, just a dream, a memory relived. It’s over- it’s over now. He tries to steady his breathing, calm his adrenaline pumped heart.

Jaskier stumbles out of bed toward the basin in his room, using an old rag to wipe his face. Cold water prickles his skin, pulling him farther out of his dreams.

It was all too vivid. He’d had nightmares before, but normally of the more emotional side. Some time after the incident with the Djinn, losing his voice plagued him at night, but nothing so vivid before. It was as though he could feel the pain again, the aches in his body as he lay there alone after the sorcerer left, fear and _loneliness_ his only companions.

He shudders again, trying to push the thought from his mind. He wants to be safe- _feel_ safe.

Perhaps that’s why he finds himself leaving his room, shutting the wooden door as quietly as possible, and sneaking up the spiraling steps of the tower. Some creek under his feet, and he focuses his energy on silencing his steps as he goes, alarmingly well actually.

Once he reaches the top, he finds a much larger door awaiting him, intricate designs etched into it as if this room was special. He imagines it had a different intention than to be a bedroom when it was made.

Shaky hands knock on the door, timidly so, almost wishing not to wake the one who slumbers inside. However, it doesn’t take long for the large door to swing open, the white haired witcher on the other side in nothing but loose and soft trousers made for sleeping. The white lines of scars mar his muscular body- large claw marks most noticeable across his chest, but Jaskier knows of all the little ones in between. _Oh_ , that won’t do well to slow Jaskier’s heart.

“What is it?” Geralt asks, his sleep addled voice coming out lower and gravellier than usual.

Jaskier looks down momentarily, pretending to inspect his nails as his brain jolts for an excuse. “Ya know, I was just thinking I haven’t really seen your room here. Thought it would be nice to look around,” Jaskier says as he strolls right in, Geralt not even moving to stop him.

It’s a large round room, fine wallpaper with blues and golds and red trim adorning each wall. In the center is an open fireplace, its chimney leading up to an intricately decorated dome ceiling. It’s furnished better than Jaskier had suspected, rugs and furs under most surfaces as if the witcher desired softness and warmth instead of the hard tile.

“You have more bookshelves than I expected,” Jaskier comments.

Delicate lattices seem to separate areas of the room slightly, a spot for study, an area for the bath, and an alcove where Geralt’s bed and more personal belongings reside. It’s _nice,_ homey even. Momentarily, jaskier let’s himself wonder how Geralt might decorate a house if he had one. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as chaotic or barren as he had thought.

“It’s the middle of the night. You should be sleeping.” Geralt replies flatly, watching the bard examine the space, his head tilting to one side with interest.

“I’m not terribly tired,” he answers quickly before attempting to redirect the conversation. “It’s really nice here, I’m actually surprised.”

Geralt purses his lips, choosing to ignore the backhanded compliment “Having nightmares again?”

“Again??” Jaskier startles.

“You were tossing and turning the whole time we traveled here. Figured you must be dreaming a lot.” Geralt says bluntly before softening his voice “it’s normal. Sometimes… even I still have dreams about the Trials sometimes.”

The confession comes out half strained, and Jaskier knows it’s something Geralt doesn’t like to admit, though Jaskier knows Geralt dreams of horrors often. He’s normally the one with nightmares, but he does little more than grunt or turn in his sleep as if a lifetime of them has taught him to have self-control even in his sleep. He never admits what they’re about, despite Jaskier knowing many of the stories that likely inspire them. So, the admission is- well, any ounce of vulnerability he chooses to give Jaskier is like a precious treasure to be kept and guarded closest to his heart.

“Oh…”

“Do you…?” Geralt trails off.

“Can I?”

Geralt nods. Wordlessly, he gets back into bed. It seems he had been sprawled out in the middle of it, but he moves his pillow over, pulling back the covers for Jaskier to climb in. Jaskier smiles, quickly following him. This bed is much bigger and softer than what they typically have. It seems Kaer Morhen at least is fitted with some luxury. Heavy blankets pile up over them, enough to keep them comfortable even in the winter to come as snow will soon fall around Kaer Morhen. And it’s already so warm.

Jaskier begins to settle when he realizes something is missing. “Do you have an extra pillow?”

He only hears Geralt grunt before he’s smacked in the face with a pillow, that vexing deep chuckle coming from the witcher.

“Gee, thanks, Geralt.” Jaskier says flatly, though he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel warmth in his heart.

\----

Early morning rays of sun stream through the large windows overlooking the mountainside, filling the bedroom with hues of gold. Geralt stirs awake, registering the steady rhythm of Jaskier’s breathing, sound asleep next to him.

The early hours of the day were always for Geralt. He’d get up first and go hunt or scavenging for herbs, tend to Roach and meditate. They found early on in their time traveling together that alone time was very important for their friendship to work. This morning, though, he feels content to stay a little bit longer.

There’s something serene about the morning that he doesn’t want to break, a peace he hasn’t felt in a while. Jaskier lays on his side, facing Geralt. Like this, he lets himself steal a moment to look over the bard’s face. With his eyes closed, Geralt can really see how long his lashes are- always perfect for his doe eyes. His warm brown hair, mussed and messy, lays in his face, a particularly long strand tickling the bridge of his nose, his eyebrows scrunching just a bit at the sensation.

Slowly, and carefully as not to touch his skin, Geralt uses one finger to brush the hair aside, smiling to himself as he does so.

The little bard has never shied away from touching him, never. Not even when he’s downed potions which make his eyes black or his veins dark. Not when he’s covered in blood or snarling at Jaskier for whatever reason. _Never_. His friendship has always been so outright. He handles his emotions well and without shame. Geralt envies him for that. If only it were that easy…

Geralt sighs to himself. _Witchers don’t have feelings_. It’s a foolish lie, but at times he’d caught himself using it as an excuse to push away the things he didn’t want to feel, didn’t trust himself to feel. Because _feeling_ is complicated. Its more dangerous than any monster he’s faced, and much easier to get hurt with.

Next to him, Jaskier groans slightly, burying his face in his pillow as he wakes from his slumber- never was a morning person. Geralt diverts his gaze, rolling onto his back as if he hadn’t been staring at all.

“Morning,”

Jaskier flinches slightly, a gasp escaping him. “Oh fuck, Geralt- I forgot” He laughs lightly. “You startled me.”

“Still not observant even as a witcher, hm?” Geralt grins, glancing at Jaskier, who was now peaking up at him, slightly less buried in his pillow. _Cute_ , he finds himself thinking before attempting to redirect his brain “Sleep okay?”

“Yea, better. Thank you.”

There’s still a darkness in his voice and a dullness in his eyes that makes Geralt’s heart twist just a bit. “Want to talk about it?” he finally says, rolling over to face Jaskier. It brings them closer than he expected, less than a foot between the two as they stare at each other.

Jaskier’s pupils go wide as he looks away, collecting his thoughts. “I just keep remembering it, that’s all.”

That seems normal for a moment, until Geralt remembers it himself. More specifically, remembers what he desperately needs Jaskier not to remember- _his confession_ , or whatever it was. He breathes in slowly, willing himself not to show his discomfort. “What parts exactly are you remembering?”

“The beginning- waking up in that dungeon, mostly. The rest is so blurry, I doubt it would come back to me even in dreams,” he answers.

“Oh, good.” Geralt says before catching himself as a wave of relief washes over him.

“Good?” the poet squawks, “Geralt, since when is memory loss _good_?”

“They’re not good memories, Jask. Just drop it,” he says a little too harshly, it doesn’t seem to bother the poet, though.

Jaskier stares at him for a moment, licking his lips as he thinks. “You’re probably right.”

Perhaps that’s unfair of him, but in all honesty, Geralt doesn’t even want to remember what he said to the bard; those three little words could change everything between them, and he can’t bring himself to believe it could be in a good way. Geralt has loved before, or allowed himself to think of love, but he never admitted it, not to Yennifer, not to anyone. That simply isn’t the witcher way.

If anything, he’s protecting Jaskier. Sure, they’re close, and there have been moments Geralt has questioned how the bard might feel about him, but it all came back to how Jaskier is just _like that_. He has no boundaries. He likes to flirt, likes to look, likes to touch more. And Geralt likes that about their friendship. But whatever physical attractions he might have to the witcher, it _doesn’t_ translate to love. Who would love a witcher?

However, his own problems are less important. He doesn’t even want to think about what Jaskier must be experiencing in his dreams, his fears and pain relived. “You know you can sleep here any time you want,” the words spill out of Geralt’s mouth before he contemplates them.

Jaskier eyes him cautiously, an expression of surprise and apprehension, but there’s curiosity there too “Are you sure? Wouldn’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep.”

“Oh, I’ll throw you out if you get on my nerves.” Geralt says gruffly, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Jaskier, always an actor, pretends to be offended- though Geralt knows he’s not. “How rude! The least you could do is make me breakfast after- after all, you’re the one trying to get me in bed with you.”

Geralt rolls on his back, throwing his arm over his eyes to hide the blush creeping onto his cheeks as he chuckles “I take it back, you’re going to be lucky if I don’t throw you off the balcony, bard.”

Jaskier’s light and airy laughter rings out like music to his ears. Once their laughter dies down, Geralt feels Jaskier’s warm hand on his bare shoulder, a finger tracing one of the scars there before settling “Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt finally uncovers his eyes, letting his head roll to the side to look at Jaskier once more. Gold meets blue cat eyes, sincere and kind as always, looking at him with what he could swear might be adoration. He only nods, not trusting his voice to hide his emotions properly.

\---------

The Wolf School library is nothing short of beautiful to Jaskier. While it is a shame to find it devoid of the arts -no novels, no plays, and no poetry- he is quite enthralled with the knowledge held within its bookshelves. Old dusty books with handwritten notes in the margins and scrolls with etchings of creatures surround him as he sprawls on the floor of the library, taking notes for himself.

He breathes in deep, relishing the smell of old parchment paper, conjuring memories of his time at Oxenfurt. He never studied much there, slipping by on his own talent and experiential knowledge, but it’s very well it ended up that way; after meeting Geralt he realized so much of what was taught about history and the non-human world was full of cow shit. His main goal was always improving Geralt’s reputation- he deserves to be recognized as the hero he is, but somewhere along the way Jaskier picked up an interest in showing people how not monstrous many creatures are.

Lately, he’s been working on an updated bestiary. Geralt had mentioned most of them were outdated, and now looking at Brother Adalbert’s Bestiary, the most famous for witchers to study, he sees exactly how bad it is. It’s dry as bones and so very inaccessible. The common folk could never pick this up and garner a deeper understanding of the world they live in!

So, he sketches and writes, making notes and drafting pages, adding to what he already has and comparing entries between what he had learned with Geralt and what the formal texts say. He gets so drawn into his work, he almost doesn’t notice Vesemir enter the room.

The eldest witcher stares at him for a moment, watching the quill of Jaskier’s pen dance as he scribbles quickly in his notebook. “I thought I was to go over the basics of witcher discipline with you today, but it seems you’ve found your own studies to work on.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, looking up from his work, ink stained fingers brushing the hair out of his face. “Vesemir, I just thought I’d do some reading before we met. I hope that’s alright.”

Vesemir approaches, glancing over Jaskier’s papers “I must admit, I find it a little odd. I never had a student so… engrossed in Brother Adalbert's Bestiary. Normally I had to force them to memorize entries; the young boys were typically far more eager to fight than study. Though, I must say that bestiary does have it’s flaws.”

“It is quite hegemonic, wouldn’t you say? Brother Adalbert paints a dichotomous distinction between human and non-human, and yet it is almost never that clear, especially in the case of sentient and cursed beings.” Jaskier rambles casually. “I found his entry on werewolves to be pitiful, truly. He barely touches on lifting curses. But- I’m sure you already know that…” he trails off, suddenly realizing what he was saying is likely common knowledge to the more than experienced witcher.

Vesemir raises his eyebrows, seeming pleased with Jaskier’s observations. “Indeed. Actually, we have a different book on curses because of that. If you’d like to see it.”

\------

“How did it go?” Geralt asks, walking into Vesemir’s study late in the day. The older witcher sits at his large wooden desk, inspecting a roll of parchment. Geralt sits in one of the old plush chairs facing the desk. He has spent most of the day training with Lambert and Eskel, then paroling the area for any forktails that may have wondered too close to the castle. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious to hear how Jaskier is doing with his training. “Did you talk to him about meditation?”

Vesemir finally looks up from his paper, amusement in his eyes as he speaks. “Well, no actually. I’m a little afraid to say we got distracted- I ended up explaining the intricacies of curse breaking.”

“You were supposed to be discussing the self-discipline required for a witcher to master their senses… and you got _distracted_?” Geralt huffs, a smirk growing on his face. The irony there isn’t lost on him as it seems to be on Vesemir.

“He’s much brighter than I thought- already has a vast knowledge of creatures and quiet a thirst for more. You must spend a lot of time discussing it together.”

Geralt nods, repressing the urge to smile, something akin to pride growing in his chest. He gives Jaskier a hard time, and he’d never tell him he truly thinks he’s bright, but no one can deny the poet has done well for himself and continues to do so whether it be through art, music, or his studies. “I know it’s easy to forget, but he is a scholar after all.”

Vesemir nods “We might just make a proper witcher out of him yet.”

Geralt stops all thought, freezing in his spot as he processes the words. Suddenly, he goes stiff. “What?”

“You don’t seriously object, do you?”

Of course, to Vesemir it seems like the pragmatic thing to do; that’s just the way things were here. But it’s not that simple. They haven’t made a witcher in many decades. To walk the Path means to give up everything else. Jaskier could not properly be a witcher and a bard. He would have to take a vow, go out on his own without Geralt to protect him, without performances to make him coin, or books to write and poems to draft. He would be _miserable_.

“You’re not turning my fucking bard into a witcher.” He hisses, his eyebrows furrowing, nose scrunching as he tries to control his anger from even hearing those words.

Vesemir raises his eyebrows, speaking as if his plan was simple, obvious, and not about a man’s life. “He already is a witcher, Wolf.”

“He’s not walking the Path.” He reiterates, firmer this time.

“All those who survive the Trials are to walk the Path. That is the way things must be. That is your destiny. Now, that is his destiny too.”

“Fuck destiny!” Geralt growls, his fist slamming down on the desk, the old wood creaking underneath it. “The first step is the Choice. He didn’t make that. Even you should be able to respect that.”

Vesemir doesn’t react. He’s used to this. Lambert throws more fits than anyone. It’s not the first time the young wolves have snapped at him. So, he remains calm, voice even “And yet he’s been deemed worthy enough.”

“No!” Geralt says, his voice raised and tense. “He’s a fluke is what he is. He’s an unwilling participant, dragged into this by a psychopath. And you want to make him a witcher? Take away what autonomy he has left? No.”

“ _Geralt_.”

“This _isn’t_ up for debate.” He says through clenched teeth. He isn’t changing his mind. Nothing will change his mind. Jaskier can travel with him all he wants, but he’s not going to walk the Path. He deserves his freedom; he won’t have his best friend chained to a life of monster slaying because of a mistake.

Geralt stands, the feet of his chair scraping across the wooden floor as he does so. He doesn’t say anything further as he storms out the room, slamming the door behind him. Distantly, he can hear Vesemir sigh. He might be disappointed in the White Wolf, but it doesn’t matter.

Vesemir has always been the closest thing to a father the boys have had, and Geralt has rarely chosen to question him, but he’s not going to sit by and watch Jaskier get thrown into the chaos of a witcher’s life because of one rogue sorcerer. He’s worked so hard for what he’s done. He won’t let that be taken from him.

Geralt heads to the kitchen, desperate for something to drink, when he finds Lambert and Eskel have already beat him to it.

“Have a fight with Papa Vesemir?” Lambert chides, a mug of beer held tightly in his hands, sitting at one of the wooden tables, Eskel next to him. “That’s a new one. Who would’ve thought pretty boy would be the one to get in trouble when I’m around?”

“You wanna talk about it?” Eskel asks, ignoring Lambert’s prodding.

Geralt only responds with a grunt, going through the cabinets until he finds a glass and some liquor. He pours himself a shot, downing it as quickly as he can. Then, and only then, does he finally answer the question “Thinks Jaskier should be like us now.”

“Like us? Like a proper witcher?” Eskel asks, Geralt nods his head, coming to sit across from the others before taking another shot.

“Bullshit idea if I’ve ever heard one. He’ll get himself killed, and this wasn’t his choosing.” Geralt grumbles.

“You know plenty of the boys that went through here didn’t choose the Path either.” Lambert adds.

Eskel kindly pours him a beer, pushing the mug across the table. Maybe it would be wiser to drink something less fast acting than liquor. He gladly accepts, setting the liquor bottle aside for now.

“Training orphaned children is one thing but expecting a man to drop his whole life because of a mistake?!” Geralt grunts, “He has a fucking job. It’s a bit late in life to start training anyways.”

“Right, because sending orphans and _stollen_ kids to their deaths was ethical.” Lambert snarks.

And Geralt falls silent. There isn’t much he can say to that. He knows what happened at Kaer Morhen wasn’t always good, but it’s affected Lambert more and longer. Eskel was Geralt’s closest friend growing up here, and they both made it out alive. Lambert, though, is half their age. Anyone he had been close to here is dead now. He holds that bitterness close to his heart, too.

Eskel speaks up, breaking the silence between them “We don’t need any more witchers anyways. Can barely make enough coin for ourselves as is.”

Lambert nods, taking another gulp of beer, “I’d guess the bard makes more coin than you most days. So nice of you two to provide for each other,” he smirks.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Geralt asks, most of his aggression is gone- replaced with irritation, of course.

“Just seems like you’re awfully codependent.” He shrugs, Eskel attempting to suppress a smile next to him.

Geralt rolls his eyes. Really? Second time hearing that in one week. “Get that from Yen?”

“Nah,” Lambert says as he leans in across the table “Got it from his scent on you. If you wanted everyone to know you’re sharing a bed, you could just shout it out the windows.”

Eskel chuckles, almost a childish snicker that makes Geralt glare at them both.

“We’re not- it’s not like that.” He stammers, going properly red in the face, which only encourages Eskel and Lambert’s laughter. “Do you always have to be a little shit? Eskel. Stop encouraging him. You know-”

“I know, I know,” Eskel interrupts waving his hand dismissively.

Geralt takes a long drink of his beer, anything to ignore those two. “For fucks sake,” he murmurs. Explaining it would just make things worse. Besides, Jaskier’s nightmares are his business, and he doesn’t trust Lambert not to press his buttons about that.

“You’re just too easy to get a rise out of,” Lambert smirks “You’d think all that traveling with a poet, you would’ve learned to use your words better.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him questioningly, “Oh, but I have. Wanna hear a limerick?”

“Sure.”

“Lambert, Lambert- what a prick.”

Lambert considers this for a moment before nodding his head, “…Not bad.”

Eskel shakes his head, looking between the two of them. “That’s not even a limerick you dumb fucks.”

As is tradition when the three of them get together, they drink and catch up on all the events missed between their last meeting. Tonight is light drinking, which means they’ll undoubtedly heckle Geralt into having a ‘real’ night of drinking with them again soon- one he surely won’t remember all of. For now, they start by talking about their hunts, creatures and people met along the way, and drift to more personal topics as the night goes on. Geralt pointedly avoids the topic of Jaskier, but it’s good to vent about everything else that’s been going on lately.

As they are about to head their separate ways, deep into the night, Eskel stops him, a hand on his arm, words slurred just slightly. “Hey, you know we got your back, right?”

“Yea, yea, I know.” Geralt answers, nodding. It comes out impatient, but he does know it. They will always be there for him, even if they’re incorrigible asses about it.

“If- If Vesemir,” Lambert begins, substantially drunker than the other two, “If he bothers the kitty, we’re on your side, brother. We’ll support you, whatever- whoever you do.”

“ _Lambert_ ,” he growls, the others only laughing more. He shakes his head, leaving for his room. But he feels warmth in his chest. It's good to be back. Vesemir will drop it, he’s sure. He can’t truly force Jaskier to do anything he doesn’t want to, and when push comes to shove, he respects Gerlat’s boundaries. But he appreciates his brothers' support either way. 

Once in his room, he’s welcomed to a lump already snoring lightly in his bed. _Jaskier_. Geralt only stumbles a little as he changes into his sleeping clothes before slipping under the covers next to the bard, smiling to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to use Geralt’s “limerick” from the game. Those lines made me laugh way too much. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos or kind comments <3 you're all wonderful!


	7. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk how I feel about the second scene here but the last one is one of my favorites tbh!  
> As always, thank you to everyone who's left kudos or kind comments. I appreciate you all!!

It seems a large portion of Geralt’s time at Kaer Morhen is spent bathing. His room is far larger than the one given to Jaskier, likely reserved for one of the leaders of the school back in the day when there were more of them. Now, with only four witchers left, it’s easy to determine who gets the best quarters: Vesemir first, then Geralt and Eskel- though Jaskier isn’t sure which gets priority, and then Lambert, whatevers left being open for guests.

At the top of one of the towers, the large stone room overlooks a view of the distant mountains. With sunlight pouring through the glass windows, framed by plush red satin curtains, Jaskier basks in the warmth of the room- far more insulated than the rickety inns they typically stay at.

One of Geralt’s old historical books in hand, Jaskier sits leaned up against the side of the large metal tub Geralt soaks in, waters at nearly scalding temperatures. Jaskier hums a new song as he enjoys the residual heat which seeps through the side of the basin. “Any plans for today?” he wonders aloud, quickly growing tired of the silence.

“Hm,” Geralt grunts lazily, his eyes all but falling shut where he relaxes.

“Are you sure you’re a wolf? Perhaps they got some fish mutigens in there- there’s not a school of the fish, is there? Or did you get bit by a mermaid? Or merperson? Is that the correct term…?”

Geralt ignores his stream of half thought out musings, instead opting to change the topic “We should train today.”

That catches Jaskier’s attention, his head turning to look at Geralt. It’s not odd or out of the ordinary that Jaskier accompany Geralt to the baths. With his long hair, no shortage of injuries, and typically gruesome state, it simply saves time and coin for Jaskier to help. They’ve shared clothes and food and drinks and beds; what’s a little nudity between friends? Yet, Jaskier can feel his eyes drift to Geralt’s chest, glancing over the scars of all sorts marking it beautifully. He feels his pupils dilate, growing as big as saucers in a second’s notice, as like a cat, his desire is reflected in his eyes. At least he notices when it happens now- thanks to Vesemir and Geralt’s assistance.

It no longer seems so easy to hide his desire. Jaskier clears his throat and turns back to his book in a quick retreat but not before he notices Geralt smirk with a tilt of his head. Who would have thought his eyes could become even more expressive? There is a reason witchers train their bodies with such rigor that they can control even their heart rate and the dilation of their pupils. Unchecked, their bodies scream with emotion and want, obvious even to a human.

“You want me to accompany you to the training yard? And I thought you wanted silence while you practiced,” Jaskeir chides- or at least tries to.

“I didn’t mean you should watch me,” Geralt replies gruffly. Behind him, Jaskier can hear Geralt rise to his feet, droplets of water falling off his body as he reaches for a towel. “You need to train.”

Jaskier almost looks back at him- almost, but he catches himself in the last second. “I thought you wanted me to train my senses, not physical abilities.”

“You need to hone _all_ your skills.”

“And what does that entail?” Jaskier questions curiously.

Geralt seems to contemplate that for a moment, eventually replying, “We should start with a run around the perimeters.”

“What?! Don’t we get to start with something more exciting? Like signs and swords??” he pesters.

When Jaskier had found out he was turned into a witcher, he had somehow expected things to be more exciting. Several days of theoretical discussions and attempted meditation with Vesemir was enough- he’s ready for some action. But running just for the sake of running? _No thanks_.

Geralt huffs at Jaskier’s selective enthusiasm for training “Endurance is important for any fight. Should warm up before we get to swords, anyways.”

“I assure you, I have plenty of _endurance_.” Jaskier teases, and even without looking, he knows Geralt rolls his eyes.

Unsurprisingly, he responds skeptically “ _Sure-_ Could you just cooperate?”

“I’m a bard,” he complains.

“And I’d like you to be a bard who can defend himself. Jas, if anything happens again while I’m on a job-”

Geralt had taught him the basics of fighting with a dagger, even gave him a pretty little silver blade- just in case. Clearly, though, it hadn’t done him much good when he was more recently attacked. It’s not like he’s helpless! He handles himself in bar fights just fine, most of the time. In bigger situations, he typically talks himself out of trouble or devises less physical means of handling things. But Geralt was right, magical foes and creatures are something else… _but running?_

“Fine, fine! You can make me run, but I expect ale tonight. And no complaining about my singing for the rest of the day. I swear, if I hear one more-”

“-Fine.”

When Geralt walks around the tub, approaching him, he’s wearing his trousers, but hasn’t put on his shirt yet. This time, Jaskier is careful not to get caught staring. “Help me with my hair,” Geralt says, sitting next to him on the ground when Jaskeir nods. “And put one of those braids in it?”

The request makes Jaskier grin, so much so he doesn’t push the topic, brag about his handiwork, or even goad Geralt about complaining about it the first few times he added anything extra to the witcher’s typical style. He knows that’ll only make him more likely not to request it next time. And the request feels like something else, something more. It feels like… being needed, or at least enjoyed. He lets that thought circle in his mind while he fusses with the witcher’s hair until it’s in perfect condition, enjoying the feeling of soft white strands between his fingers and the satisfied hum Geralt gives him when it’s done.

\---

Jaskier lays in the grass, chest heaving after he was knocked to the ground for maybe the fifteenth time today. A cool breeze from the mountains blows over him, but he finds the temperature isn’t quite as bothersome to him as it once may have been. For that matter, neither was their morning run. Yet, even with Jaskier’s enhanced endurance, Geralt found ways to push him until he’s fallen tired and weak. Meanwhile, the White Wolf looks unbothered as always.

‘Your footing is wrong’, ‘mind your stance’, ‘wrong again’, ‘chin up’, ‘stop looking at your feet’, Geralt went on and on with his critiques, hitting Jaskier’s weak points with the dulled training sword or pushing him off balance time and time again.

Now, Jaskier stares up at the sky, watching slow clouds float by with the heavy feeling of defeat in his chest. Geralt had allowed him this much, for a moment at least. Not after long, though, he feels Geralt’s boot nudging against his foot. “Up. You’re not done, bard.”

“Come on, Geralt. Give me a rest.” He breathes, exasperated and oh so _done_.

He hears the witcher’s quick reply “You know there isn’t time for rest in a fight.”

Jaskier sighs. Frustration building in him, he sits up abruptly, “Well, I’m sorry, but I’m just not like you.”

Geralt tilts his head to one side, blinking a few times before he speaks, oddly, seeming confused by Jaskier’s outburst. “I don’t expect you to be, Jas? I think I was pretty clear that you’re not going to be a witcher.”

Jaskier huffs, of course he doesn’t get it. “No! I mean I’m not some amazing, perfect, heroic monster hunter like you.” He fusses, throwing out his hands toward Geralt “You need to lower your standards because I’m just not going to live up to them like this.”

Geralt almost looks frozen in place, watching the bard carefully without a word. Which is fine. If his initial reaction to Jaskier’s outbursts isn’t yelling back, it’s complete silence because he doesn’t seem to _get_ how he can make people feel.

But Geralt has never been so hard on him about something like this- never so pushy and incessant about doing it ‘the right way’. He was so much different when he showed Jaskier how to use his dagger, and maybe that’s what has Jaskier feeling so exasperated- so desperate for something to show him he’s not a failure.

“But fuck I didn’t think I was doing that bad-” Jaskier continues.

“-I didn’t-” Geralt finally begins, but Jaskier is far too focused on what he’s ranting about now and quickly cuts him off.

“Like, I get it. I’m not one of you. But I’m not a total failure either! I can hurt people- you’ve seen me hurt people. I’m just asking for some positive reinforcement here. Would it kill you to just to say something nice? Like, ‘Jaskier, you’re doing pretty good’ or ‘you handled that well’ or ‘you didn’t fall as hard on your arse that time’. It’s not so hard!”

Geralt continues to stare at him as if Jaskier was some odd creature until a silence develops between them “You’re right.”

“Of course you’d- wait, what?” the bard stutters, somehow expecting a very different response- something more stubborn, typically.

“I never said you were doing poorly. If you shut up five minutes ago, I could have told you that.” Geralt says, crossing his arms as he looks down at Jaskier, almost concerned.

“You never said it, yes, but you never said the opposite, either.”

“This is how we train…” he says, and somehow it’s what he doesn’t say in that sentence which speaks volumes to what his training was like- what his childhood was like, a topic the two rarely ever cross, and one that no one aside from the bard knows anything of. Geralt sighs, lowering himself to sit next to Jaskier in the grass, his eyes going softer “If I thought you were bad, I’d tell you.”

Jaskier finds his frustration- his anger dissipated as he contemplates what Geralt had said “You- you were trained like this?” he asks gently, trying not to push too hard.

Geralt avoids eye contact, gaze falling to the grass between them. “Yes,” he says warily, almost a question.

“They didn’t tell you when you did well or… or anything? Even as kids?”

“Especially as kids.”

Jaskier watches in silence where Geralt begins to fidget with the blades of grass in front of them, pulling out a particularly long one and pretending to examine it in the silence between them, something shy and bashful about it.

It’s hard to imagine. Jaskier was trained by a lot of musicians, but most were gentle at least with children. He knew witcher training was rigorous, but with the way Geralt was so kind and gentle with children, he thought they were all like that.

But if he was never told kind things, never got compliments or praise even about his skills, it explains why Geralt never gives compliments. He does nice things, and tells the truth, but he’d sooner throw himself off a cliff than freely give a compliment. Suddenly it makes sense. Previously, he just thought it was the humans who were harsh, but it was everyone, wasn’t it?

Over a decade of being together and never hearing Geralt comment on his singing drove Jaskier out of his mind at times, but this sudden realization puts a different perspective on that. Instead, it turns his attention to think about all the times Geralt doesn’t take compliments. Jaskier knew humans rarely gave them to him in earnest, but he thought the witchers at least would. As someone who thrives on praise and compliments, it makes Jaskier’s heart ache.

Jaskier finds himself biting on his lower lip as he thinks through what his friend just said until finally the words slip out “But you are good,” he says, eyes locking with Geralt’s, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly as if it were his grave and serious duty to compliment the lovely witcher enough to make up for a past without it.

He hears Geralt snort in response as if he had just made a joke “I thought this was about you.”

“Everything is.” He jokes, “But you know it, right? That you’re good? At many things, not just fighting.” Jaskier pushes, earning an odd look from Geralt “You’re a good person.”

Geralt looks away again, offering only a quiet “Hm,” in return.

Silence falls over them again, only the sounds of birds chirping overhead filling the space “I could try again,” Jaskier offers.

Geralt looks at him apprehensively for a moment, “I could try to do better, too.”

That makes Jaskier smile, a toothy grin crossing his face as a warm feeling of happiness blooms in his chest. It means the world to him, and he’d like to say that, but instead he turns to teasing in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Don’t look at me like giving a compliment is going to kill you. Just try something simple like ‘Jaskier, you’re not horrible at this’, hm?” Jaskier’s pestering seems to amuse Geralt, a smile finally tugging at his lips, even just the faintest glint in his eyes encourages Jaskier to go on. “Or ‘Jaskier, your singing is radiant’, ‘your eyes are lovely’, ‘you’re my best friend in the whole world’- all acceptable compliments, really.”

Geralt huffs, “Don’t push your luck, bard.” He chides, elbowing Jaskier in the ribs, earning a yelp from the poet.

Jaskier’s eyes narrow, watching as Geralt stands up to begin again, his back to the bard. And then an idea hits him. As quiet and stealthily as possible, Jaskier grabs his training blade as he rises to his feet. Then, when Geralt is still turned away from him, he charges at the witcher and hops on his back. He snickers at the surprised look on Geralt’s face when he feels the cold dull blade against his neck- never mind Jaskier was clinging to him like a very ungraceful displaced koala.

“Got you!” He sneers triumphantly.

Geralt chuckles “I guess you’re not so bad at this.”

It’s only a matter of seconds until Jaskier is on the ground, getting the wind knocked out of him as he lands in the grass with a thud. But this time, he’s smiling.

\----

Jaskier keeps waking up in Geralt’s bed. He tries, really tries to sleep on his own, but each night he finds himself climbing the stairs to the witcher’s room. At first, he’d have to wake up Geralt, push him over as he hogged the bed, but after a few nights he found his side of the bed empty as if Geralt had been expecting him. He’d still wake when Jaskier crawled in bed, but nothing more than a grunt or a quiet “hey”.

The nightmares stop when he’s next to him; it’s almost as if the White Wolf can protect him even in his dreams. It’s foolish, he knows. It’s not like they can share a bed forever. But he has gotten used to it on the road at inns or at least being around him as they slumber on separate bedrolls while camping. And he likes it; likes to be close; likes the way the sheets here smell like them.

But that can’t last forever. He has to be okay. He has to handle this, Jaskier thinks to himself. Another nightmare woke him tonight, but it wasn’t the usual. There are other things grating on his nerves. Instead of running to Geralt, he thought he would try to clear his head this time.

Jaskier walks the castle walls, slow but deliberate as he thinks. The night sky is endless above him, stars twinkling unimaginably bright. Only a few lanterns light his way, but it doesn’t matter. Jaskier can see in the dark now.

He stops at an outlook at the front of the castle’s outermost wall, admiring the view of the mountains and fields in front of him when he hears footsteps in the distance, slowly getting closer.

“Bard, aren’t you supposed to be getting your beauty rest or something?” Lambert asks once he’s close enough.

The witcher is still in his armor, swords on his back as he walks- patrolling the walls? Or perhaps he couldn’t sleep either. Jaskier can smell whiskey on him but only the slightest hint- not enough to be drunk. This late at night, its actually kind of surprising for Lambert to be sober.

“Just thought I’d get some fresh air.” Jaskier shrugs before adding “It’s quite beautiful here. I never knew- Geralt never mentioned it.”

“It has its moments, I guess.”

“You don’t think so?”

Lambert shifts “Look, this place is home for the others, but it’s all fucked up. A lot of stupid shit happened here that shouldn’t have.”

Jaskier wants to ask more, but he gets the feeling Lambert isn’t going to volunteer more information. He isn’t exactly a touchy feely kinda guy- but Jaskier can relate to the feeling of being at home and feeling so out of place “I think I know what you mean.”

“Vesemir been helpful?” Lambert asks casually, though Jaskier can’t help but notice the way he watches for Jaskier’s answer, almost careful of something.

“Yea, he’s been quite interesting to talk to, actually. I hadn’t met him before this whole… extravaganza.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Lambert huffs in amusement. “Hasn’t bothered you about any extra trials or walking the Path, has he?”

It throws Jaskier off- he hadn’t the slightest clue that would even be considered. Geralt voiced his opinion on it, but Jaskier thought that was more to discourage him from thinking he could join Geralt on all his hunts now- which he definitely can, but that’s an argument for another time. “What? No. Why would he?”

Lambert laughs, but it’s that bitter chuckle of his “Guess Geralt’s outburst worked well.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows in surprise “Outburst?”

“He didn’t tell you? Got into a fight with Papa Vesemir about it.” Lambert looks at him curiously as he speaks. “Guess you’re both hiding something from each other.”

Geralt getting into arguments over Jaskier is definitely something he’ll need to ponder, but Lambert’s implication is what catches his attention for now. “What is that supposed to mean?!”

The witcher looks at him like he’s stupid- may have learned that look from Geralt, actually. “Look, no offense, but I find it hard to believe that a _poet_ is just okay with becoming a witcher. It fucks with everyone- but we all expected it; you didn’t. I just can’t help but wonder why you’re hiding it from the old man.”

Lambert is far too confident in his assessment, and Jaskier is far too tired to hide that he’s right. “I- Geralt doesn’t need to worry about me. He just blames himself for everything.”

“Exactly. Do you really think he wouldn’t be even more of a martyr if he found out you were hiding how you feel from him- because of him.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to talk, but Lambert cuts him off, rolling his eyes “Just do us all a favor and figure it out. The rest of us don’t want to deal with his moping.” He smirks as he turns to leave, calling out as he walks away “And get some sleep, bard.”

Jaskier turns Lambert’s words over in his mind. He had been trying to handle his worries on his own, without Geralt, to spare him from it. But would that truly hurt him more in the long run? He sighs, leaning forward against the stones of wall and gazing out at the landscape before him. The middle of the night is a good time for introspection, he supposes.

\--

Jaskier usually finds his way to Geralt’s room around three a.m., but it was already four and there was no sign of him. Geralt wouldn’t admit it, but he had gotten concerned- ventured out to check on him. Stopping by his bedroom door, he could hear no one inside. He picked up on his scent, a fresh trail leading outside of the castle. It was easy to spot him standing, looking out over the walls of Kaer Morhen in the distance.

And for a moment, Geralt just lets himself watch, observes the way the bard seems to be watching the stars motionless, and smiles to himself. He approaches him quietly, though he knows Jaskier can hear his footsteps. He doesn’t turn his gaze to greet the witcher, though.

“Was wondering where you were,” Geralt murmurs, joining Jaskier at the lookout.

Jaskier pauses for a moment, seemingly enraptured by the view “And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame. From the void abyss by myriads came-”* Jaskier recites dreamily, almost more to himself than Geralt. “I always found the heavens to be inspiring, but I never knew you saw it like this.”

Geralt settles next to the bard, leaning forward with his arms resting on the wall. He looks up, lets himself take in the view as well. It has been a very long time since he’s been star gazing. Bright lights flicker in the distance, clusters of them illuminating the sky from behind faint colors of the galaxy. “It looks different?”

“Very much so. I can see so much more, Geralt. Humans only see blackness, but we can see the colors like only those in the north have written about. It has been cloudy every night until now. I had no idea you could admire beauty with such detail.” Jaskier says, his voice airy and light as if the view took his breath away.

Geralt finds his eyes landing on the bard, taking in the details of his face the way Jaskier is taking in the details of the stars, his eyes big and bright, a smile tugging at his rosey lips as soft brown hair falls around his face. “Yea,” he hums in agreement, never once thinking about stars.

“Do you see that one,” Jaskier points to the sky “With the triangle.”

It takes him a moment, but he thinks he follows where the bard is talking about. “Yea?”

“Do you know it? That’s the Lupus constellation- your constellation, I suppose. See, the triangle is the head. Then, there’s the body and the legs sticking out.”

Geralt chuckles, it looks more like a stick figure puppy than anything. “If it’s my constellation, it’s a little less intimidating than the real thing.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Jaskier jests, gently slapping his hand against the witcher’s arm “You’re not intimidating. Never have been.”

“Perhaps you’re just very brave, Little Lark,” Geralt all but coos.

It’s another elusive compliment, and he truly means what he says, so he’s surprised to see Jaskier divert his eyes, suddenly becoming downtrodden. After a small silence, Jaskier voices his thoughts, uncharacteristically quiet and meek “But what if I’m not?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if I am afraid sometimes? About the future? About… me?” he trails off.

“Does it bother you? Being non-human?”

“What? No! It’s not that.” He answers quickly, rushing to clarify before turning to Geralt, confusion in his eyes “Do you regret being a witcher?”

The question almost throws him off- it’s not something he thinks about. Geralt’s time as a human was so short and inconsequential in the span of his long life. He barely remembers what it was like to have hair that wasn’t white or eyes that weren’t yellow. He doesn’t know what it would be like. Personally, he found contemplating what could have been a waste of time, though he knows Lambert thinks about it often. This is his life though.

But. He’s a freak. He knows that. He’s repulsive to most, and at best a fetish to some. He never feels normal or unmarked around humans. There are a few in passing which thank him for his deeds, but that’s just it- he has to be useful to them to earn even a modicum of respect. But the people in his life that are good, like Jaskier, are very good. And to live as an ignorant human and hate all that’s different sounds like a worse fate than his.

“It has it’s pros and cons,” he admits, saying the words slowly as he continues to contemplate, but he doesn’t get much of a chance as Jaskier cuts in.

“Sometimes I think this is the most beautiful experience, really. I get to see things in ways I never did before. I know the comments of monstrous humans have always bothered you, but I only thought of you as more than human, not less. If you were human, we surely would have never met, and that would be a mighty shame,” He smirks, leaning toward Geralt a little more before diverting his eyes, his smile fading. “It’s the other things- it was so overwhelming in town… I’ve been having nightmares of the process, as you know, but more than that. I suppose, my biggest fret is what if I can’t perform anymore? What if it’s always too overwhelming and- and I won’t enjoy the things I loved so much?” he admits, his bottom lip trembling slightly.

The admission has Geralt’s heart twisting. He had expected him to hate being what he is, but instead Jaskier fears he’s lost what he was- his enjoyment of the crowds and performance so dear to him. Geralt’s yellow eyes soften, his hand moving to rest on Jaskier’s shoulder “You will.”

“How do you know that?”

“If I can handle it, you can too. It just takes time to adjust.”

“But you hate noisy bars and festivals!” Jaskier protests, bottom lip still pouting.

This time, Geralt smirks, “Jask, I hate the people. The noise is not the problem- most of the time. But I always did like silence, even before my mutations.”

Jaskier bites his lip, contemplating the witcher’s words. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

The bard looks as though a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“Wanna head back?” Geralt offers, Jaskier nodding in return.

As they walk back to Geralt’s room, Jaskier stays close to him, bumping his shoulder often, always seeking contact. Its increased since the mutations. He seems to be more tactile than ever, though Geralt, _thankfully_ , noticed it only applies to him; Jaskier grants the other witcher’s a reasonable amount of space. Not that it would bother him if he didn’t- Not that he feels special being the one Jaskier always seeks out for comfort and affection- And definitely not because he likes it.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Geralt wonders aloud as they make their way toward the main hall, making sure his voice is gentle as not to sound accusatory.

Jaskier sighs, biting his lip before he speaks. “My dear, you are both the greatest and dumbest friend I have ever had. I’ve not met another oaf so set on blaming himself for everyone’s misfortune.”

“At least I take responsibility for my actions,” the witcher hisses, though fondness fills his eyes as he smacks Jaskier in the arm, harder than usual because now he can take it. It’s a relief not to need to be so careful with his strength anymore.

“Hey!” the bard protests, shouldering him in return. It actually does put Geralt off balance for once, and he’s knocked against the wall. The bard is smart though, he knows if he’s to escalate things, he ought to run, so he takes off, giggling and far too pleased with himself.

“Get back here you little brat,” Geralt growls, a toothy smile on his face. He takes off after the bard, paying little attention to their surroundings.

He finally catches up when the clumsy songbird dashes through doors to main hall and promptly runs directly into one of the crates Lambert had moved there earlier that day. It gives Geralt the advantage, and he tackles him to the ground. Jaskier lands on his back, staring up as Geralt pins him. It’s not the first time they’ve done this, but it feels different suddenly. Geralt freezes above him as their eyes lock and all he can see is how big and blown out Jaskier’s pupils are, his hair messily falling in his face. Geralt wouldn’t dare let himself think he sees _want_ there, but…

He watches a little too intently as the bard licks his lips before speaking, voice low and airy like he were still trying to catch his breath “Not the best witcher, am I? Defeated by a few crates,” he laughs quietly as if not to disturb the oddly intimate predicament they’ve gotten themselves into.

Geralt can’t catch himself before he’s brushing the loose strands of hair out of Jaskier’s eyes, his worries coming back to his mind, “You’ll be just fine” he says soothingly.

Jaskier smiles sweetly, so sweet and genuinely. “Oh course, as long as I have y-” He’s cut off, jumping slightly when they hear the loud creak of the back door of the main hall opening, followed by the distant echo of Vesemir’s voice- talking to Lambert, most likely.

Geralt is suddenly very aware of how they might look, him hovering above Jaskier, one hand pinning his wrist down. He quickly gets up before anyone sees. He helps the bard up, watching as Jaskier brushes off his clothes before he speaks “We should-” he begins, almost shy about it as he looks to the tower their bedrooms are in.

Geralt just nods in agreement, leading the way.

They don’t speak as they walk up the stairs, but Geralt can’t help but wonder what Jaskier was going to say- can’t help but think about if they hadn’t been interrupted. _Fuck_. He sighs, internally cursing himself for ever allowing so many feelings to start surfacing recently. It feels like there’s a leak in his boat, and he just can’t stop it.

Suddenly, he comes to a halt, realizing he no longer hears Jaskier’s footsteps behind him. He turns back to see the poet standing outside of the guest chambers, looking up at Geralt curiously.

“Are you coming?” he asks.

“Oh,” Jaskier looks between Geralt and his door, stuck in indecision. “I thought I should…”

“Stay with me.” Geralt blurts out far too quickly. Whether it’s an offer or a question, he can’t be sure. But he can’t find it within himself to regret it, as the happy smile the bard gives him and nod of acceptance is far too good to allow him to be displeased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The poem Jaskier recites is Song of Stars by William Cullen Bryant because I'm not creative enough to write original poetry for this
> 
> Thank you for everyone’s patience. I’m rushing to finish some projects and dealing with work stuff, so it’s been going a bit slower. But all your comments have been so encouraging! It makes my day every time 😊 <3


	8. Singing to Goats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Apparently, I had to write the last chapter of this before I could work on all the in between so this took a bit longer than expected. I tend to write chapters out of order, so it happens. 
> 
> But thank you for all the kind comments and kudos! You guys really encourage me to keep working on this... even when I write a sorcerer into the plot and then realize I should probably actually do something with that, huh? Right, because main plot is also important, not just fluff...

Of course, she had to come back. It was only a matter of time. There’s a madman out there somewhere, after all. In the walls of Kaer Morhen and surrounded by witchers -most importantly, his witcher- Jaskier had all but forgotten about the sorcerer. However, he’s given a rude awakening in the middle of their training.

Today, Jaskier is working on archery. Vesemir had suggested it, and while Geralt had insisted he didn’t have to, Jaskier thought it would be interesting to try. He stands steady, bow in hand and arrow pulled back. Where once his arms would shake with exertion from the strength required to do so, he was surprised to find himself unwavering. That is, until he’s startled by a sudden burst of light that appears in the courtyard accompanied by the sound of whirling wind. His aim and grip falter, the arrow flying blindly into the air. Geralt watches it arch through the air, landing on one of the barricades with a thud.

“Good thing it wasn’t sharpened,” He says, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Next to them, the spiraling yellow light of a portal solidifies, and Yennifer walks out. It extinguishes with a fizzle as soon as her leather boots touch the courtyard grass. As usual, she’s draped in black with hints of white. The monochrome color scheme makes the brightness of her violet eyes and shimmering eyeshadow pop even more. Jaskier wonders idly if she ever doesn’t look perfectly put together.

At Kaer Morhen, they’re able to keep themselves warm and bathed regularly, but running into Yennifer after a particularly rough week always felt a little unfair.

She comes to stand next to Geralt, hands on her hips as she appraises Jaskier “You taught it tricks,” she finally says.

Jaskier glares at her, an indignant gasp escaping his mouth. “Very _original_ , how long did it take you to come up with that one?”

Geralt is far too tired of their bickering to so much as glare before turning to Yennifer “Take it you found something?”

“I’ve scoured what I could from the remains of the Cat school. I’ll tell you all about it, but let us convene inside.”

‘Convene inside’- sounds like an analogue for ‘hook up’ if Jaskier’s ever heard one. So, he follows Geralt all the closer for it, ensuring to let his hand linger on the witcher’s bicep as he passes him. He knows it won’t make the sorceress jealous, but a bard can hope she’ll at least take the hint.

Once they’re situated in the main hall, Yennifer sitting on the couch as if she wishes to touch as little of it as possible, and Geralt standing, arms crossed and tense, he speaks “Can’t remember you getting your hands dirty before.”

 _Well, not that way,_ Jaskier thinks. However, he doesn’t say it out loud both for the preservation of his life and because he’d rather not conjure those memories between them.

“Maybe not, but Istredd was of help.”

Geralt bristles, pursing his lips. Jaskier can see the way his jaw works back and forth subtly with irritation.

“Oh, really? Really, Geralt? Don’t give me that,” Yennifer rolls her eyes, gesturing at him as though she could brush him off.

“I would just like to keep Jaskier’s _condition_ on a need to know basis.” Geralt continues.

“Fret not for your little bard,” she smiles, something teasing in her eyes “I didn’t tell him anything, but his assistance was needed. Old, dusty nothings _are_ his specialty.”

“That explains a lot,” Jaskier frowns at her, earning himself a threatening glower from the sorceress. She deserves it, by his standards. Besides, sorceresses are all mean like that, he thinks, so it doesn’t truly scare him. Yet, in a den of wolves, she’s the one he wouldn’t let his guard down around. So, he resigns himself to keep the insults for later. 

Ignoring Jaskier’s outburst, Geralt uncrosses and re-crosses his arms with a huff, finally giving in and dropping the subject “Just get to the point, Yen.”

“Between what we found and records Istredd had at his disposal, we narrowed it down to one Cyprian of Ulivo.”

“Ulivo?” Jaskier questions “No one is from Ulivo anymore.”

Geralt turns slowly, shooting him a skeptical glance, one eyebrow raised “He’s a bit older than you, Jask.”

“Yes but,” Yennifer sighs “Unfortunately, the bard is right. It’s most definitely an assumed name- sort of like Rivia,” she smirks. Jaskier finds himself snorting before he can catch himself.

He clasps his hand over his mouth when Geralt glares at him, but mutters under his breath “Did this Cyprian fake his accent, too?”

“Witchers take fake names to conceal their identities. It needed to be believable.” Geralt hisses before adding “ _Julien_.”

Jaskier blushes and drops the topic. That name is a source of complicated feelings for him. Though it’s only said sweetly on Geralt’s tongue, its not one he enjoys hearing often. And it feels wrong hearing it out in the open like this rather than in private spaces and moments held between them.

Yennifer glances between them, smiling amusedly “It isn’t exactly like Geralt’s adopted accent, but I do have a theory as to why Cyprian choose his pseudonymous origin of Ulivo; he had an extensive collection of _Idarran_ of Ulivo’s work stored away at the School of the Cat.”

Geralt makes a low displeased sound that could only be described as a growl, though Jaskier isn’t sure why.

“Who?” he asks

“He’s one of the mages who created the witcher mutigens- it’s not terribly surprising they would have his work on hand, Yen.”

“Let me clarify. In a locked and magically enchanted chest, I found the remains of transcripts varying from witcher mutigens to the creation of the Idr. Cyprian’s own notes were exploring the much darker sides of Idarran and his mentor Alzur’s work as well. He was not just studying mutigens; he was attempting to become a specialist in hybridising, mutation and genetic modification.”

Geralt grunts “ _Wonderful_.”

“I haven’t finished reading his notes, but I have reason to believe his motivation was for monetary gain. I know it was a long time ago, however-”

“Greed never changes.” Geralt cuts in.

“Yes,” she nods.

“Which means he won’t exactly be moral about who he chooses to sell his services to.”

“If he’s planning on reviving monsters like the Idr to be his pets, I get it. But witchers?” Geralt wonders aloud.

Jaskier wants to shake his head at the witcher’s density, but he resists. He knows it’s only because of Geralt’s insecurities that he’s blind to see his strengths- “I know it’s hard for you to imagine people envying you, but how many nobles will pay twice their inheritance for a fake potion to give them immortality and eternal youth? Or lovesick youth who would sell their own leg for a chance to impress their loves in triumphs of brute strength? As long as he doesn’t label it ‘witcher mutigens’, the personal demands would be endless.”

Yennifer scoffs “Maybe so, but sorcerers like this do not settle for appeasing nobles’ whims for a few coins. Real power would come from appealing to royalty.”

Geralt frowns “You think he intends to sell the mutigens for military purposes?”

Yen shrugs, “One witcher can do more in battle than ten, twenty, or thirty human soldiers.”

Geralt rakes his hands through his hair, sighing deeply. “Why does it always have to get political?”

\-------

Jaskier does his best to brush off the encounter after Yennifer rushes off to wherever or whatever she has to do around Kaer Morhen- something about spells. He knows better than to ask. At least she isn’t dragging Geralt along.

“Well, that was fun.” He chides, “So, signs yet? I’ve been thinking, it would be such an alluring stage trick if I could shoot fire from my hands while performing.”

A stern “No.” is all he gets in reply.

Geralt paces back and forth; even without his armor weighing him down, his heavy boots click loudly on the stone floors. Jaskier lets him fret for a bit until the silence becomes absolutely unbearable.

“What are you so worried about? At least we know I’m just a- a-” Jaskier pauses as he considers kinder words to use to describe himself.

But Geralt is not so delicate, “Lab rat,” he supplies.

“I would consider myself more on par with something lovely and graceful, but sure. _Lab rat_.” Jaskier repeats.

“That’s the problem, Jask.” Geralt snaps back “He’s relying on us to test you- see how far you can push your limits, how close you can get to the real deal. He’s counting on us training you. _Fuck_ , he probably knew I would take you here. _Dammit_.”

He puts his hands on his hips and stands his ground “If you taught me more, I could defend myself better.” Geralt doesn’t say anything, so Jaskier pushes further “What about just the cool shield one? Quen?”

“Don’t you get it? He knows where we are. He could easily show up and- and-” he trails off, faced all scrunched up in frustration. Jaskier swears there’s not a muscle in the man’s body he doesn’t tense when he gets like this. “I don’t want to give him what he wants.”

It’s a grumbled confession, and it absolutely vexes Jaskier. Geralt is so pigheaded like this sometimes. He always has to be stubborn just to prove someone wrong- this little habit seems to have come out strongest with how he adamantly avoids anything that so much smells like destiny, but Jaskier isn’t surprised to hear he’s attempting a petty rebellion just to tick off an enemy.

“So, to avoid giving him what he wants, you’re going to neglect me of what _I_ want? Must you be so stubborn? By that logic, you should be simply bursting with emotion just because people say witchers are emotionless,” Jaskier proclaims, throwing his arms into the air “Well, I mean, you are, but you like to pretend you aren’t. Isn’t that right?”

Geralt rolls his eyes, but he can’t outright deny Jaskier. Maybe ‘bursting’ was a little too liberal, but he is very emotional. At least, Jaskier sees he is. Just as he sees the harsh lines of his forehead ease where Geralt had been worrying. It’s a minute change, but it means he’s getting to him.

“ _Please_ , Geralt,” Jaskier whines, stepping closer to invade the witcher’s space. He flutters his eyelashes with the very best puppy-dog eyes he can give, reaching out to grip Geralt’s arm gently. Close like this, Jaskier can really focus on the details of his face. He sees where the side of his mouth twitches slightly in an urge to move and his pupils grow, fixing the bard with an intensity in them. For a moment, Jaskier allows himself to believe he sees desire there. And he finds his act slipping, no longer about getting his way and quickly spiraling into him being just as lost in Geralt’s pull.

“ _Julien_ ,” he says, soft but laden with concern. The name must be on his mind from their jokes, but Jaskier melts under the low grumble of it. Yes, this is how he likes to hear it- in the silence and privacy in which the name speaks so much more than a title- it speaks of care, and the intimacy of their friendship, and perhaps more than that- what cannot be said.

“Geralt!” he hears Yennifer call.

In less than a moment’s notice, Geralt is turning away from him to attend to Yen. Whatever was held between them feels broken now as Geralt does little more than gripe “We’ll talk about this later,” before chasing after the sorceress… as always.

Jaskier’s heart sinks into his gut, that bitter and lonely feeling filling his chest instead of the bubbling excitement that was momentarily held there.

It always is her. She’s the obvious choice.

He makes himself scarce for the rest of the day, sneaking off to the library and spending plenty of time on the battlements of Kaer Morhen with his notebook and quill in hand.

He’s almost surprised to find Geralt in their- _his_ room earlier than usual and smelling more like Jaskier than Yennifer. Geralt informs him, as if he felt obliged, that he spent the afternoon training with Eskel. Jaskier doesn’t ask about Yen; he’ll let himself have this victory, no matter how small and momentary it may be.

\--

Jaskier makes himself at home in one of the fields surrounding Kaer Morhen. Flowers and wild grass dance in the wind, swaying back and forth around him, the sweet smells of nature filling the air. After everything with Yennifer the day before, he found himself wanting space. It’s been odd staying in one place with Geralt for so long. Usually, they wander from town to town looking for jobs and adventures to be had.

In part, though, he wanted a place to think and sing his most private thoughts. Out here, there is no one to overhear him, no one to watch or listen aside from a small heard of mountain goats he found. He approaches them carefully, quietly, sitting in the grass nearby. It doesn’t take long for some to wander closer to him, grazing on grass and seemingly unbothered by his presence. Their long shaggy fur blows in the wind, and he can smell them so clearly. It’s a little unfortunate, but the way they gaze at him curiously with horizontal irises makes up for it; he’d always liked odd creatures the best.

Yen is… good and bad. Beautiful and fierce, and brutal and bold. She’s things he’s not and never will be. And though Geralt’s break with her was far more dramatic the last time, he can’t help the sinking feeling that all of this will end again with the witcher and the sorceress falling into bed. What’s odd is it isn’t just the normal feeling of jealousy he gets around her. No, it’s painful and sickening and leaves him feeling defeated.

He knows Geralt cares for him greatly- that isn’t the problem. It’s that Geralt doesn’t care the way Jaskier cares and may never.

That’s even worse in some ways, because it means he can’t escape his feelings. Every twist and turn of their journey together, and he only finds himself drawing closer and closer to the witcher, heart growing warmer and warmer. Yet, all he wants is always withheld to be given away to someone else.

_It’s not fair._

And he wants to get his mind off of it all so badly, but the only words that come out of his mouth when he opens it to sing are words about feelings and affections. He tries and tries again to think of something else. He flips through his notebook, but he’s confronted with scribbled lyrics and poems all about the same topic. And perhaps he has been thinking about love an awful lot. Love and witchers, but pain too- or an aching feeling in his chest.

Then, his eyes land on a few scribbled sentences- something he wrote a couple nights before when he had some time to himself. A few adjustments here and there, a couple minutes to find a tune to play on his lute, and everything seems to fall into place.

_"It’s not fair, it's not fair how much I love you_

_It’s not fair 'cause you make me ache, you dumb fucking oaf,_

_Oh how, oh how unreasonable_

_How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do_

_I’ll spend a hundred years so close to you 'cause if I’m stood here_

_Then I’m stood here_

_And I’ll stand here_

_I’ll stand here with you"*_

The words fall out, and he knows deep down in his heart how true it is. And it almost hurts. How could it be possible that his longing has only intensified so greatly? That every morning he wakes up in a bed with another, not for the sake of saving money or for warmth but rather comfort, and he feels his heart clench and ache even more than before?

And Geralt cares for him more tenderly than any being ever has, and yet he knows it’s not out of the same love Jaskier has for him. If it were, surely the witcher would have done something by now. How easily he seemed to fall for Yennifer- how easily he pursued Yennifer and kept pursuing long after he should have walked away.

Jaskier sighs, slumping where he sits, these emotions weighing heavy on his mind. He could stay ruminating like this all day- it’s a poet’s curse, really. But he’s suddenly disturbed by the goats nearby bleating at him loudly. They scamper and kick, dispersing as they run into the distance.

“Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad!” Jaskier whines, throwing his hands up at the retreating creatures.

“Not quite as cryptic as your other work, but not bad.” Eskel’s rumbly voice says from behind him.

Jaskier jolts with a gasp, his hand on his chest as he turns to see the witcher approach- thankfully alone. “Melitele, you nearly scared the life out of me.”

“I drew the short stick when we decided someone should make sure the bard hasn’t gone crazy- performing for goats.”

“ _As if you’ve never sung to a goat,”_ Jaskier rolls his eyes “I just needed a fresh pair of ears to iron out my newest ballad with.”

“Mhm,” Eskel hums, eyeing Jaskier curiously “And do you plan to share this ballad with everyone at Kaer Morhen?”

Jaskier fidgets under his gaze, a blush threatening to crawl up his neck and cover his face. “N-no it’s, um- a work in progress.” 

“Mhmm” the witcher hums incredulously “And when it’s finished?”

“Well, you know. A poet has to keep some pieces to themselves, at least until the right time. An effective performance is always about timing.”

Eskel sighs softly, a small knowing smile on his face “Come on, bard. It’s about time we talk about signs.”

Jaskier hops up immediately, both excited and thankful to drop the previous topic. “So, Geralt has seen the light at last? Did he admit I was right?”

“I wouldn’t push it that far but something like that,” Eskel grins.

“Ah, finally! You know, I was once jealous of mages for their abilities. It seems like quite the glamorous life at times. But once we met Yennifer, and I realized my lack of magical talents blessed me with sanity instead.” Eskel chuckles as Jaskier goes on “Though, I must admit it is still alluring. Oh, please do tell me we start with igni!”

Eskel snorts “We’re not starting with igni. And you know you won’t be able to cast anything aside from signs.”

“Some witchers, such as yourself, have an exceptional ability for signs, correct?” Eskel nods “So, technically speaking, I could be one of those witchers.”

“We probably would’ve known by now, but sure, bard. Whatever floats your boat.”

\--

Eskel is more patient than Geralt when teaching; he puts a great deal of effort into making himself as gentle, polite, and approachable as possible in any situation aside from the heat of a battle, so it comes as no surprise he maintains that certain degree of calmness in teaching too. Jaskier wonders if he was always like this or if it began as a way to offset the extra ferocity in appearance his scars gave him. He suspects it’s a combination of factors.

“We’ll start with quen,” Eskel explains after giving a brief overview about signs- nothing new to Jaskier, but he imagines the witchers don’t get much of a chance to teach these days, so he humors him and nods his head like he’s learning. Besides, it helps him get his mind off of all the nonsense of the morning. However, his patience is running thin when the prospect of doing something is dangled so close in front of him.

“Quen is used to shield us. Imagine it’ll come in handy for you many times, but we most often use it-”

“-when facing ogroid creatures such as cyclopses and trolls which are impervious to other signs. Same goes for other heavily armored large creatures or unavoidable attacks.” Jaskier cuts him off

“Right,” Eskel nods. He seems amused that the bard knows so much about witchers. “Geralt share all this with you on the Path?”

Jaskier shrugs “I drag it out of him.”

Signs are made with a simple movement of the hand. Witchers use the non-dominant hand, favoring weapons which can be used single handedly in their dominant hands. While Jaskier may not be using a sword all the time, it is immensely helpful incase he has his lute or something else important in hand.

Eskel shows him the sign for quen and talks him through drawing on his energy and producing a shield. He tries and tries as he might, but alas, nothing happens. At best, he feels his fingers tingle and a small yellow spark fizzles out, yet he lacks the golden shield of protection around him. When his frustration becomes too much and his pouting quite apparent, he’s surprised to hear the voice of a different witcher behind him.

“Some people are more gifted with one sign over another,” Geralt steps in.

Jaskier turns to face him to see the witcher covered in dirt and soot. His hair is pulled up in a messy bun, though the lose strands sticking out are similarly caked in light dust. His shirt sleeves are pushed up, white tunic unbuttoned more than usual. It’s a heavenly sight- or is it sinful? Jaskier can’t quite decide; there’s a lovely song in there somewhere about the convergence of dichotomous perceptions of love and lust just waiting to be written, he’s sure.

“What happened to you?” Eskel huffs.

“Vesemir dragged me into helping him patch up the outer walls.” Geralt says as he moves closer to join them. He leans back against one of the barrels nearby, arms crossed yet relaxed as he gazes at Jaskier. “Just finished and figured I should make sure you hadn’t blown up yet.”

“That would be a welcome change to this nothingness,” Jaskier complains, exasperatedly throwing his hands into the air.

His witcher rolls his eyes, but Eskel doesn’t seem as bothered by Jaskier’s impatience “We could try aard.” He offers.

“Could work better.” Geralt shrugs, “Passivity isn’t exactly the bard’s strong suit.”

Eskel goes through all the steps he did with showing Jaskier quen, this time with aard. Rather than creating a shield, aard is a telekinetic spell that thrusts energy in the direction which the witcher desires. Geralt, and other experienced witchers, can easily use this to create a shockwave which circumvents their surroundings, but Jaskier only needs to try and push away what’s in front of him. 

“The more energy you focus into a smaller radius, the stronger it’ll be,” Eskel explains.

“Kind of like singing Geralt adds, explaining when Jaskier looks at him curiously “You don’t want to waste air- or energy in this case. You need to try and focus it.”

Jaskier smirks. Sure, it makes sense enough. He appreciates the attempt in itself.

Eskel scoffs next to him “Didn’t know you were a musician now, too, wolf. You gonna sing us a song like you shared that limerick?”

“Shut up,” he bristles as Jaskier laughs. Their bickering does well to relax him. 

Jaskier breathes deeply, trying to focus on the energy- whatever that’s supposed to feel like. He repeats the hand motions that Eskel and Geralt showed him, middle finger down, other fingers spread, and all he has to do is extend his arm.

When he does, he feels a tiny puff of energy flow through him and out of his hand. The wave isn’t much- actually, it’s abysmal if he were in the face of a foe, but it’s something. But for a moment, he’s filled with excitement.

When he looks next to him, Geralt is gazing at him with adoration in his eyes; he almost looks proud.

Jaskier begins to giggle “That was a little anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

“No, Jas, that was great. You did it!” Geralt insists, grinning at him.

“I wanna keep trying,” he pushes, suddenly feeling more energized again with his small triumph to fuel him.

Geralt and Eskel glance at each other for a moment. Jaskier is familiar with it. Usually, it’s him and his witcher who have silent conversations like this. He can’t quite interpret what Eskel seems to be signaling, but it looks like teasing. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.” Eskel says, shooting Geralt one last toothy grin.

\--

He’s not sure how long they stay outside- long enough for the air to become cool with evening’s darkening sky and for Geralt to light a small fire near them for warmth. Jaskier was able to produce a fairly sizable shockwave by the time they finished. Geralt joked he might be able to knock away any unwanted, handsy maidens which loiter after him at banquets. He left out the part where they’d have to be drunk to be properly knocked down because he’s trying to be encouraging.

In the setting light of the evening, next to the small fire, they sit slumped against a pile of crate on the edge of the yard. Geralt tries not to notice he hasn’t stopped smiling the whole time they’ve been training.

“Hm,” Jaskier hums next to him, surprisingly quiet.

“Hm?” Geralt returns.

“I’m so tired,” he admits, words coming out slow and sluggish.

Geralt chuckles. “Signs do need energy, after all.”

He remembers those days on the training yard. The first were the worst, when he wasn’t expecting the fatigue to hit him so hard. He didn’t know his limits then. They were quickly taught to recognize and push them to inhuman extents after that.

Jaskier slumps where he sits, allowing himself to lean against Geralt. “Worth it.”

Seeing Jaskier train under such different circumstances is interesting; while it brings up his memories of the past, he’s happy to see the bard enjoy it without the same pains the young witchers experienced. He’s doing better than expected- wants to do more than Geralt had expected too. He doesn’t need to master weaponry and signs, but the bard is eager.

It’s comforting in a way. He knows if people notice Jaskier is a witcher, he will end up in fights. That’s just the way it goes. He should be able to display some of that superior strength when he needs it. But, there’s still the matter of Cyprian. Geralt doesn’t know what he expects the sorcerer to do. It’s very well likely they’d never see him again if they weren’t planning on going after him, but it still gnaws at him.

After Geralt doesn’t pick up the conversation, Jaskier speaks up again. “You’re not still worrying, are you?”

“I don’t worry,” he tries to convince the bard.

Yet, Jaskier only laughs “Right, and what would you call it? This… thing you’re doing?”

“I’m simply considering the possible outcomes.”

Jaskier hums, pressing into Geralt’s side more as a particularly cold breeze comes through the training yard “Sure, _worrywart_.”

Geralt snorts at him because he doesn’t have a rightful answer. Anxiety, panic, worry, _love_ \- they’re only some of the emotions witchers aren’t supposed to concern themselves with. Base emotions like happy or sad, hungry or tired, angry or calm- those are easy. Everything sentient feels those to some extent. But as soon as they’re too much, too strong, or too pure, Geralt doesn’t know what to do; he doesn’t know how to name them or show them. He just wants to hide them. Worry is one of those emotions he’d rather pretend he doesn’t feel.

“You know, worrying about someone just means you care about them.” Jaskier says, his head lolling to rest on Geralt’s shoulder. And the witcher lets him. The warmth is nice after a long day. Its comforting. That’s all. It’s definitely not because of the warmth in his chest or the fluttering in his stomach.

“Hm,” Geralt grumbles as Jaskier shivers again. Enough- the comfort is nice, but not at the expense of his bard. Geralt gets to his feet, pulling Jaskier up and motioning for them to head inside. Once they begin to walk, he finally asks “Do you worry about me?”

Jaskier smiles “I don’t need to worry to admit I care about you, my dear. But, if you must know, sometimes I do, yes. I have faith in you, though. I know you will always be okay in the end- even if you are reluctant to have such a positive outlook on life.”

Geralt stops in his tracks as the thought hits him- _faith_. Jaskier has heard several rumors of Geralt’s death over the years, and not one phased him because he had faith in Geralt’s capability to take care of himself, the same faith he’s put in the witcher to protect and save him from any harm that had come his way. There’s something to be said about that. Perhaps, Geralt has been a bit unfair to Jaskier. Afterall, the poet has gotten himself into and out of trouble many, many times without his witcher to protect him.

A little faith couldn’t hurt. But then again, maybe worry isn’t such a bad thing either since it’s for someone he cares about.

“Come on now,” Jaskier urges. He links their arms and tugs him in the direction of the main hall. “I deserve a drink.”

“That you do, Little Lark.” Geralt smiles, “That you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Yea, I did use modified lyrics to Fair by the Amazing Devil. I can't write songs! I thought it fit nicely, anyways.
> 
> This chapter wasn't as fluffy as the last, but I tried at the end. What's some good pining without a least a little bit of insecurity, though?


	9. Dreams

While Yennifer’s investigation did alert them to exactly by whom and why Jaskier was kidnapped, the whereabouts of said sorcerer still remains at large. Without any recent belongings of Cyprian’s, Yennifer is incapable of using a simple location spell. Instead, she proposed using Jaskier’s memories to conjure up more clues as to where he may be hiding and who he might be working with.

She called them into one of the old laboratories of Kaer Morhen. Where the Witchers and mages once mixed potions and decoctions now sits empty and dusty desks and worn couches left here for storage. Geralt supposes it’s an appropriate place for Yennifer to set up. She brought her own supplies, megascope in one corner and brewing potions on the alchemy table. It reminds him a bit of what this room used to be like.

At first, Jaskier wasn’t sure how his feeble memories of the event could help, but then the sorceress explained she would be using magic to look inside his mind and pull out what was fuzzy or forgotten. Both Jaskier and Geralt went stiff as the stone walls when she said that. While Geralt is sure Jaskier is upset by the prospect of Yen being able to rummage around in his mind, Geralt has much more pressing fears.

“You’re going to what?!” Jaskier sputters.

Yennifer offers him a weak smile, patronizing more than comforting “Trust me for five minutes, bard. I know what I’m doing.”

“How much of my mind are you going to see?” He presses, fidgeting with his fingers nervously.

That’s exactly what Geralt was concerned about too- and more importantly, if Jaskier would see what she did.

“Enough,” She responds lightly.

“Yennifer,” Geralt speaks up, trying his best not to alert her of his ulterior motives for being concerned “There are somethings he shouldn’t remember- doesn’t need to relive.”

Yennifer looks at him curiously, smiling slyly. He used to love that smile- when it wasn’t directed at him, that is. When she looks at him that way now, though, he knows she suspects something.

_Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it._ he repeats like a mantra in his mind to block out the thoughts that threaten to expose themselves to any nosey mind readers.

Yennifer chuckles, tilting her head with an amused and exasperated smile. Ah, so she _had_ tried to read his mind- or still is.

“Don’t.” Geralt growls as menacingly as he can “I’m serious.”

“Very well,” Yennifer sighs, and though he can’t be sure for certain she has given up, he trusts her enough to respect his privacy where he desperately needs it most. If she is to find out, this shouldn’t be how. “You’re right. There is a lot Jaskier should likely not remember. I can’t say how much will come back, but I’ll keep my investigations limited to what is necessary.”

Geralt and Jaskier both nod, though Geralt senses he has more confidence in her to keep to her word than the bard does.

“Good. I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding. Now, go make yourself useful elsewhere. If you keep staring over my shoulder I might just lose my patience.”

Geralt grimaces, glancing to Jaskier for confirmation he’ll be alright on his own. The bard smiles, but teases nonetheless “If I die, Roach can have my lute.”

Geralt huffs, his frown fading with the joke “She’d make a lovely bard, I’m sure.”

Yennifer shakes her head, smiling, as she walks Geralt to the door. She steps into the hallway behind him, her expression softening for a moment. “Whatever this is about, you’ll tell me later,” she says quietly, forgetting Jaskier’s hearing is now far too enhanced not to hear. It’s not a demand, but a request. Geralt knows that. But he doesn’t know if he could tell her- or anyone for that matter. Right now, the way they’ve left off, it feels a little unfair. Still, he nods his head before leaving to find a distraction.

\--

When Yennifer enters the room again, Jaskier finds himself babbling, “Look, if you could not rummage around in there too much. I’ve got a lot of, uh, well, less savory memories and I’d really rather not have this be one of those days we find out far too much about each other unintentionally. Maybe you could just pretend you didn’t see anything if you do?”

Yennifer ignores him, brushing off the comment. “It will hurt,” she explains, very matter of fact. She begins to mix potions at the table, gesturing for Jaskier to sit on the old beaten couch nearby.

He does so, but not without some dramatics, “Well, then, don’t have too much fun.”

“Despite what you think of me, I’m not evil.” She hisses, eyes narrowed as she glares at him. “I’ve better things to do than chase after your kidnapper, yes, but if I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

“Despite what _I_ think of _you_? You’re the one who’s hated me from the start!”

“You’re uncouth, but you made it very apparent you always thought I was bad for Geralt. And maybe we’re not… _right_ for each other, but you didn’t have to profit off of it.”

“What are you talking about?”

That is absolutely true, but it isn’t his fault if a little jealousy and heartache motivated him. Yennifer hadn’t exactly tried to befriend him at any point along the way. But profit?!

“ _She’s always bad news. It’s always lose, lose”_ She quotes his own song to him, frowning as she does. “I’m not ignorant, Jaskier. Though I appreciate your attention to my propensity for destruction, keep me out of your music. You have no right to gain coin at my expense.”

Jaskier gapes at her. She had heard his song?! She heard it enough time to memorize it? Or was once enough to make an impression? He hadn’t played _Her Sweet Kiss_ in a long time. In fact, he’d never played it in front of Geralt. It was something he saved for quiet taverns on lonely nights when the witcher and the sorceress were gallivanting around while Jaskier stayed behind feeling forgotten.

“That’s not fair! That’s not about you- it’s about me, about how I felt watching him fall for you when I love him.” He stiffens, eyes going wide and mouth falling open in the shock of his own admission. Yennifer falls silent, too, whatever irritation on her face wiped blank. “ _Bollocks_ ,” he squeaks, realizing his mistake.

“Go on.” She says, smoothly, and he’s not sure if it’s a threat or not.

He shakes his head, but he’s mad, and soon the words begin to flow again, “It was always us, just us, before the djinn happened. We traveled the continent together and the whole time he was all I wanted, but he didn’t see me like that. I tried everything to make my heart clear aside from saying the words themselves. I- I thought maybe he just didn’t know how to be loved. But then you strolled in and it took fuck all of a day for him to jump into bed with you. He wished to be with you forever-” A bitter laugh escapes his lips, “And imagine, he would’ve never met you if it weren’t for me. Some matchmaker I am- Don’t tell me how I should’ve been happy watching him fall into your arms. And don’t tell me I can’t write about my own heartbreak!”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” she says, and for the first time, he thinks he hears empathy in her voice. Directed at him. No, it can’t be empathy- its pity.

“You wouldn’t understand. You’re a powerful, beautiful sorceress. You can have anyone you want. Me? Sure, for a day I can have my pick of most people, but in the end I’m just a toy to them- a shiny thing to play with until someone else comes along.” He waves into the air dismissively “That’s not the same. You didn’t even have to try to get everything from him that I wanted.”

She breathes out slow and steady, centering herself before she speaks “That’s not true, either. You don’t-” she stops, as if she were about to say something she’d rather not share with him. For a moment, he wonders what that is- what he doesn’t know about Yennifer that could shake her up like that. When she speaks again, her voice is strong and proud like usual, her guard brought back up. “But things didn’t turn out for us, did they?”

“Because you-” Jaskier begins, but he’s quickly reprimanded, her voice harshly interrupting him.

“No. _We_ recognized what we felt wasn’t real. It was a pairing of convenience and attraction fueled by magic. We’re fortunate we can be friends now, but for what it’s worth, I’ve been bound to a man who doesn’t love me. Not like that.”

Jaskier looks away, suddenly feeling embarrassed by his outburst. He had no right to be mad at her- she didn’t know how he felt, and even if she did, they weren’t friends. They aren’t friends. And he’s just spilled his biggest secret to his not friend. He really, really doesn’t want to think about that, so instead of addressing it, he finds his mouth babbling again “For what it’s worth, if I had the wishes, Valdo Marx would have died a terrible death.”

Yennifer looks at him with disbelief, rolling her eyes, and even though she doesn’t say it- Jaskier swears he can hear her calling him an idiot. “Do you not remember waking up clutched to Geralt’s chest after your trials?”

“Um, yes- but is that a rhetorical question?”

“Do you not wonder why he traveled with you even when he claimed to care for me?” she prods further.

“Well, of course. You have much more delicate sensibilities than him, and plenty of your own affairs to attend to.”

“He never asked.” She replies, getting more impatient by the second.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to get at.”

“I’m not sorry for what happened between Geralt and I,” She begins, coming sit next to him on the couch. Jaskier slumps in his seat, doing his best not to pout when he’s startled by her soft touch on his arm “But I am sorry you got hurt. If it’s any consolation, neither of us found what we were looking for in each other.”

There’s a sadness in her eyes he hasn’t seen before. He’s silent for a moment before responding with a sigh “It’s not your fault. It’s not like I wouldn’t have gotten hurt if you weren’t there.”

“You should consider the way he treats you more carefully- you died in his arms, after all.”

Jaskier is left speechless, mouth opening and closing as he tries to form words. Is Yennifer really suggesting- she can’t be right. That has to be some kind of ploy against him… right? Before he gets a chance to push farther, she hands him the freshly finished potion. The flask feels warm in his hand, glowing an unnatural purple. The smell wafting out is something horribly bitter, despite its alluring appearance.

When Jaskier looks to Yennifer, she smiles at him softly, and he chooses to believe it’s genuine. At least, for now. “I suppose you’ll have plenty of time to consider it while I rummage around in there. Now, drink this. It’ll make the process smoother.”

\--

Geralt does his best to keep his mind off of Jaskier for even just an hour. If he’s being honest with himself, he has been worrying about him, and a lot at that. And when it’s not worry, it’s… something else.

He ought to use the time to finish some of his personal projects around the keep. He finds himself at the “armory”; it’s not the real armory- that caved in long ago. This is a little, quite pathetic room where they’ve set up a workbench. Sunlight streams through the gaps in the brick wall where it’s falling apart and grass springs up between the stones on the floor. There’s an assortment of tools laid out on the wooden table, scraps and leftovers from pervious projects, and a few schematics lying around. Normally, he only comes here to fix his own supplies; Geralt typically commissions an armorer to make his gear. Looking at the things around him, he’s not sure how much he actually knows how to use.

Geralt sighs, running his hand through his hair. He’s not sure why he thought this was a good idea, but he wanted to do something for Jaskier. Maybe it’s to make up for letting him get kidnapped, or maybe it’s to make Geralt feel better in the future, but he figured armor was a good gift. The bard like fashion, this is close enough to a doublet, right? Besides, he would need something if he was feeling brave enough to put his Witcher skills to the test. Even if he wasn’t, it’d make Geralt more comfortable if the bard was a little more protected.

But- Geralt doesn’t even know where to begin. Swords he can do. He fixes his swords all the time. But armor- Jaskier mocked him last time he tried to patch up his own armor with crude and uneven stitches.

He fumbles with tools and supplies, the damn schematics keep curling up every time he lets go of them, and after a few minutes of frustration, this seems to be going nowhere.

“For fucks sake,” he curses under his breath.

“Having troubles, old man?” Lambert chuckles, strolling into the little room, his gambeson and a pair of boots in his arms- coming for repairs, no doubt.

“No.” Geralt bites back automatically. Lambert just rolls his eyes, dumping his supplies on the floor unceremoniously. He would never admit it, but Lambert is pretty good at sewing and smithing the finer details required for armor. He says he had his armor made specially, but they all know he added the criss cross arrows himself. That gives him an idea… “Actually, maybe you could help me.” Geralt says, much kinder this time.

Lambert gives him a curious glance “And what would the great White Wolf need my help with?”

“Found these schematics on a hunt awhile back,” Geralt explains, sliding the aged paper toward him “Cat gear- thought it would be good for Jaskier. Can you make it?”

“How much you gonna pay me?” Lambert chides.

Geralt grimaces. Of course, he would never help out of the goodness of his own heart. “What do you want?”

“Help me with it. It’s for your boyfriend, after all.”

That _wasn’t_ what he was expecting. Geralt pauses for a bit too long before he responds, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Not _yet_.” Lambert smiles dubiously “And if he’s not soon, maybe I’ll make him mine.”

Geralt snarls at him- can’t help himself, but it only seems to please Lambert more. He always did enjoy getting a rise out of the older witchers.

By the time they’re finished, he figures it’s worth it. A little teasing won’t kill him, after all.

It’s not the full armor- he’ll have to get a smith to make the metal pieces for the bracers, and an expert would have to make the shoes, but the vest is perfect. Made of thick leather dyed a vibrant dark blue, he can put it over anything and it will easily pass for casual wear. Instead of the chunky belts on the schematics, he fit it with delicate golden embellished clasps he found at a market a few months back. Jaskier can have whatever details added to it later if he wants, but it looks good by Geralt’s standards anyways.

—

Yennifer’s magic works its way into Jaskier’s mind much faster than he expected. One moment, he’s sitting on the couch, the smell of lilacs and bitter potion smothering him, and the next he finds himself in total darkness.

This time is different; this time, he knows he’s dreaming, but he still doesn’t feel like he’s in control.

It starts out the way it always does- dark alleys, damp dungeons, and pain. But something shifts, new details become apparent. The words the sorcerer, Cyprian, mutters are clear as day. He can hear the man humming an old hymn to himself as he brews potions, and the overwhelmingly distinct scent of mutigens comes to him as if he were actually there. However, as the dream goes on, he begins to feel like he’s floating.

He feels disconnected, everything blurry and unclear until slowly, one by one, his senses begin coming back to him.

He hears birds chirping first, then darkness is replaced with bright lights streaming through broken windows. There’s something warm surrounding him, but he doesn’t know what. He feels confused but safe- it contrasts the rest of the experience so much.

_‘Jask_.’

He hears a voice call to him. It’s familiar- Geralt? He wants to move, to look around for him, but he can’t.

_‘Jaskier’_ he calls again, voice strained in a way Jaskier has never heard before.

Jaskier tries to open his mouth, tries to speak, but he can’t. His throat feels tight and everything is slowly fading to black. He fights it with all he has, but he can’t. Panic rises in his chest. He can feel his strength draining out of him. It’s- it’s like he’s dying.

‘ _Julien’_ is the last word he hears from Geralt, the rest fading into a garbled mess, but he smells salt in the air and feels warm droplets fall onto his cheek.

\--

“Geralt!” He calls out as he bolts awake, sitting up far too quickly.

The witcher rushes to his side to steady him as all the blood goes to his head, making him dizzy and queasy. Once his eyes adjust to the light, Jaskier recognizes he’s in the room where he had been talking to Yennifer. He’s right where she left him on the couch while she was rummaging around his brain. Geralt is next to him, kneeling on the ground as he holds onto Jaskier’s shoulders.

“Jask, are you okay?”

Jaskier says nothing but wraps his arms tightly around the witcher before him, squeezing tightly. He isn’t sure what he feels, in all honestly. It’s a lot to process. The way Geralt’s voice sounded- and the tears, they weren’t his tears, were they? He’s never seen a witcher cry before. Jaskier tightens his hold on Geralt, pressing his face into his shoulder. He isn’t sure if it’s to comfort himself or the witcher more. But of course, the oaf assumes it’s because Jaskier is fearful. He hums lowly before whispering “It’s okay, you’re safe.”, rubbing Jaskier’s back softly. It makes Jaskier’s heart clench.

_‘You should consider the way he treats you more carefully’_ Yennifer’s words ring through his mind.

His interaction with Yen was… conflicting. It’s nice not to be threatened by her for once. But he’s not sure yet if she’s someone to trust with his feelings- his life, yes, but feelings? How is he to know if she was being genuine or just inciting him to get his hopes up just so she could whisk Geralt away once again.

But like this, he’s tempted to believe her that whatever is held between them could be _more_.

It takes a moment for him to register the absence of the sorceress. “Where’s Yennifer?” Jaskier mutters.

Geralt draws back, but he keeps his arms around Jaskier “Left- said she wasn’t needed anymore.”

“You let her leave?”

“Of course?” Geralt replies slowly, looking at the bard curiously.

It might be an odd thing to ask, but Jaskier finds his mind can’t quite keep up with his mouth to silence the words he probably shouldn’t be saying. “I just thought you’d want to spend more time with her.” He tries his best not to sound hurt by the idea, but he doubts it works.

With that, Geralt does let go of his hold on Jaskier. He shifts back to kneel in front of him. “Jaskier, what are you saying?”

Jaskier can’t bring himself to look at him, studying his fingernails intently instead. But he needs to know at least this much. He bites his lip momentarily before asking “Don’t you- do you still have feelings for her?”

“No.” Geralt responds quickly- quicker than he expected “Not like that. She’s my friend.”

“Like me?”

“No.” Jaskier’s eyebrows furrow. He’s not sure if he should be hurt or relieved by those words. Geralt avoids his gaze, mumbling “Not exactly”

Jaskier feels his face heat up as he dares to push it further “Geralt, what do you mean?”

Geralt looks tense or pained, pursing his lips in that way he does when he doesn’t want to talk. But Jaskier hopes he’ll try. Maybe he’s asking too much, though.

Before he can speak, they’re interrupted by a tipsy Lambert entering the room, a bottle firmly grasped in each of his hands “Hey,” he slurs a bit before stopping, looking over Geralt and Jaskier for a moment- Geralt on his knees in front of where Jaskier is sitting. He raises one finger before he speakers “First of all, _gross_. Second of all, it’s about time the kitty cat tries some potions.” He shakes the bottles in his hands, the liquid inside sloshing around “Equal parts spirit and White Gull. Eskel ‘n I already started. You comin’?”

Geralt shakes his head, but Jaskier laughs, the awkwardness of the situations disipating. While it makes Jaskier a little aggravated the moment was ruined, maybe it’s for the best.

Geralt looks at him a little sheepish, small smile on his face “You wanna try? If you’re not feeling good…”

“Am I going to regret this tomorrow?”

Lambert says “Never!” at the same time Geralt says “Definitely.” and that’s all the convincing he needs.

“Count me in.”

\--

They end up playing this drinking game Lambert learned from Oxenfurt students last time he was in the area. Of course, Jaskier was more than familiar with it. Each one takes a turn stating something they have never done, and whoever has done it must drink. It only takes a few rounds for the topics of their confessions to become less and less dignified.

“I’ve never jumped out a lover’s window” Geralt says, very knowingly targeting the bard. To be fair, Jaskier had been the one to start the targeted jabs.

Jaskier and Lambert are both quick to drink. “One time-” Jaskier begins to say.

Geralt laughs, cutting him off, “If you recount every stealthy escape you’ve made from a lover’s bed, we’ll be here all night.” Hell, he’s caught him falling from a window once or twice.

He’s really slowed down over the past few years, though. It has been a long time since they’ve gotten in trouble for Jaskier’s romance related shenanigans- other shenanigans are to be expected, and truthfully, if it doesn’t involve where Jaskier is sticking his dick, Geralt doesn’t mind as much.

In the beginning, Geralt didn’t care about the nights the bard wouldn’t return to their shared room at the inn. Over time, though, it grated on his nerves more and more. At some point, he began to be concerned about the trouble he was making and the trouble he was getting into, but eventually it morphed into some kind of emptiness settling in his chest as he lay in a cold bed.

The bard’s habits seemed to fluctuate over time, going from young exploration to chaotic recklessness and settling down to… to _nothing_ , actually. He might’ve been slipping away during the days, but each night he’d return to their room without so much of a whiff of another person on him, so Geralt doubts it. When had he stopped spending nights away from Geralt? ...Probably around the last time him and Yennifer split ways. He’s not going to put too much thought into that, though.

Geralt forces himself to focus on the game at hand. Lambert is talking- has been talking. Something about a daring escape out of a third-floor window.

“He was a friend. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“The lover or the lover’s spouse?” Jaskier chides, confident as always, but Lambert goes red. When he doesn’t respond, Jaskier shrugs it off “What? I’ve run for both reasons.”

“I don’t think leaving your lover through the window or through the door makes much of an impact either way when it comes to hurting their feelings.” Geralt chides.

“Maybe not, but it does influence if the guards get involved or not.”

“I don’t fuck friends,” Lambert says. He means it to sound rough and gruff, but it comes out rather sheepishly. That doesn’t happen often. In fact, he doesn’t get embarrassed like this often. It peaks Geralt’s interest.

“That so?” he asks curiously, leaning farther across the table.

Eskel shoots Geralt a mischievous grin but quickly hides it, using his most nonchalant voice to ask, “Why don’t you ever bring anyone to Kaer Morhen, Lambert?”

“Fuck off,” Lambert growls back.

“Oh, come on now,” Eskel complains, as if he were innocent in this conversation.

Of course, he’s not. The three of them can’t go a day without egging each other on somehow, but more often than not, Geralt and Eskel end up on the same side. It’s unfortunate for Lambert, really, but that’s what he gets for being a prick.

“Why don’t you?”

Eskel chuckles, giving them his best cocky grin “As we’ve established, I like my women with horns, and their type don’t particularly fancy wintering in a keep of witchers.”

“Ya know- I noticed you sometimes say ‘we’ when you tell us about your hunts. Is there someone special you’re not telling us about, Lambert?” Geralt teases.

Jaskier snickers next to him but doesn’t add to the bickering. He probably would if it were Geralt being harassed, but he has enough of a sense of self-preservation not to poke Lambert about his personal life. Though, that instinct doesn’t extend to his approach with Geralt for some reason.

Lambert’s face slowly shifts from grouchy indignation to an unsettling grin “I don’t know, Geralt. Is there someone special _you’re_ not telling us about?”

Geralt recoils, grimacing immediately. _Too far_. If his brothers want to tease him about feelings he’ll never admit, he’ll begrudgingly accept it. But with the object of his affection sitting next to him, Geralt all but shuts down. The most he can do is hope Jaskier is too drunk to question it. “Fine. Don’t tell us. It’s a stupid game anyways.” He gripes.

Eskel rolls his eyes with a deep sigh, “I’ve never a little _bitch_ about relationships- Don’t protest. You’re all drinking.”

\--

As soon as Geralt’s head hits his pillow, he realizes exactly how drunk he is. The motion of falling into bed has his head swimming, and he hears himself groan rather than consciously makes the noise. It comes out strained and- well, _old_ sounding.

Jaskier much more gracefully climbs in next to him, giggling mischievously “I had always hoped you would sound better than that in bed.”

_Hoped?_ He doesn’t have the thought power to focus on that word and what it may or may not mean.

“Mm,” he grunts again.

“Please, don’t tell me you were trying that time.”

“Shut up,” Geralt fusses, smacking Jaskier’s arm carelessly.

He hears the musician huff but doesn’t bother looking over. “Have you always hit me this hard?” Jaskier complains, shoving his doublet off chaotically, one sleeve getting caught on his arm in his struggle.

Geralt watches for a moment before he takes pity on the bard, finally rolling closer “Stop- stop, you’re making it worse. You’re like an uncoordinated katakan pup.” He fusses, clumsy hands pushing at Jaskier’s doublet until he’s finally freed.

The bard throws himself back against the bed with a happy sigh as Geralt returns to his place. “I’m sure that was a very rude insult, but I don’t have the energy for a rebuttal.” He says, airy and light. Jaskier turns on his side to face Geralt, and for some gods forsaken reason, Geralt does the same so that they’re face to face and far too close. Jaskier smiles at him with a vapid look in his eyes “So, have you?” he finally asks.

“Have I what?”

“Have you always hit me so hard?”

Geralt furrows his brows “No, but you’re not so fragile anymore.” He lets his eyes roam over the bard. His muscles are slightly more defined, though not all that much different. He’s always been fit, just in a lean way rather than bulky like Geralt. He looks softer for it, more welcoming and less threatening, though he’s always been a menace in bar fights.

Jaskier chuckles lightly, “Don’t worry. Even though I can do things now. I… I’ll always be your damsel in distress”

Grealt snorts at the insinuation, “ _Jaskier_ ”

“I mean- I’m not going to rush out and start killing monsters just because you show me a few tricks. Maybe I’ll save your _fine_ ass once or twice, but I’m a bard. _Your bard_. I know you’ll always save me.” The words come out slow, and by the way his eyes flutter, Geralt sees how exhaustion is overtaking him.

Geralt huffs softly, more fond than amused. It’s sweet and soft and everything Geralt doesn’t know how to be. Jaskier likes being protected by Geralt- even if he doesn’t need protection. He feels _safe_ around Geralt. That’s not new, though the witcher is amazed every time it dawns on him. But it’s something he cherishes- not just that, but that the bard feels safer with him than he ever would without him. Jaskier must know that if he wants Geralt to know that won’t change between them. Though, he certainly doesn’t need Jaskier throwing himself into distress just so Geralt can prove his affection for him.

His own body is beginning to feel heavy with exhaustion, words escaping his grasp. He closes his eyes for a moment, perhaps that’s why he finds himself admitting, through slurred words “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

Jaskier says it like it’s a fact, but he can’t really know that. He already almost did. That thought makes him open his eyes, just to make sure the bard is still there, still real. When he does, he sees far too attentive blue eyes staring back at him.

When he looks away, his eyes fall on the bard’s hand, resting between the two of them. His rings reflect the little moonlight shining through the window, and this close, Geralt can see where callouses mark his fingertips. By instinct -though he’s not sure where the instinct came from- Geralt finds his own hand reaching for it. He stops himself in time, recoiling and balling his hand into a fist- too obvious and too awkward.

“You can- you don’t always have to stop yourself.”

“What?”

Jaskier sighs, but his eyes seem to sparkle with amusement “You’re dumb for a smart guy.” He mutters before grabbing Geralt’s hand in his own. He pries clenched fingers open, slotting his in between. Their fingers intertwine so naturally, so perfectly. Jaskier’s fingers are thinner than Geralt’s, but long, and his hands are strong too. They don’t feel as delicate against his battle worn hand as he had expected.

Geralt opens his mouth to say something, but once he tears his gaze from where they embrace, he sees that Jaskier has fallen asleep. It would probably just disturb him if he removed his hand, so the witcher concedes to fall asleep like that. Tomorrow, if they don’t forget about this, he can blame it on the alcohol. For now, though, he decides to let himself enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help it. This chapter is referencing Lambert’s secret relationship with Aidan- a witcher from the Cat School mentioned in the Wild Hunt. I’m not going to spoil anything for anyone, but oh boy, wow does Lambert talk about boys a lot in the Wild Hunt. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, to anyone who has left kudos or comments. You're all amazing and so encouraging! :)


	10. Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a long wait, I finally have updates!! Quick shout out to @Tinythoughts (@dapandapod on tumblr) for being my brainstorm buddy and helping me get out of my writers block with this/the next chapter. <3

The dreams come with increasing frequency these days. Each night, he would get a moment or two farther into it before he awoke. It got to the point which the beginning no longer frightened him as much because even in his dream state, Jaskier knew he would see his witcher soon. It’s foolish, perhaps- he was probably encouraging the dreams, but he was eager to hear the next word, the next phrase Geralt uttered to him. 

_‘_ _Do you not remember waking in his arms?_ _’_

Yennefer’s words circulate his brain over and over and over again, dredging up the specifics of how he was held tightly against Geralt’s chest when he awoke and the words murmured to him before. 

Everything seemed believable, every memory held close to his chest as they came to formation in his mind. Fingers running through his hair, whispered stories to calm him, gentle touches- he had seen Geralt with scared and injured people before, he knew that vulnerability was the witcher’s own weakness, and he would quickly throw out his usual pride and stoicism to comfort one in need. 

A few nights of dreams pass until it happens. And when the words come, clear as day, Jaskier awakes not with a gasp or a scream but completely frozen. 

_‘_ _I love you._ _’_

The words echo in his mind, clear as day in his dreams. But it must have been his imagination, right? He couldn’t really have heard that. 

_‘_ _You’re all I have. I can’t lose you._ _’_

No, that’s not true. Geralt has plenty of people- people he cares more for than Jaskier. 

_‘_ _I love you._ _’_

He wouldn’t have said that. And yet Jaskier can see Geralt muttering the words as clearly as any other memory in his brain. 

Jaskier stays frozen where he lays, unable to move a muscle. He clenches his eyes tight, replaying the memory of the words over and over again as if he would forget it if he didn’t. He can’t trust it, but it felt so real. It was right before everything goes black. He was held tight against Geralt, panic and pain lacing the witchers voice as he whispered those three desperate words. Jaskier’s mind goes wild trying to discern dream from reality, panic and hope racing through his veins. 

“Jaskier?” he hears the low, grumbly, sleep addled voice of his bed fellow murmur “somethin’ wrong?” 

What is he supposed to say? Jaskier grapples with his desires for a moment; though he wants to ask Geralt about it- wants a heartfelt confession, he’s far too fearful to do so now without so much as easing into the topic. It would be unfair to the witcher, wouldn’t it? And if it were just his imagination, how could he possibly handle that? 

“No- no, what? Why would anything be wrong? I’m just- just sleeping,” he answers shakily. 

Geralt’s arm gracelessly swings over him, his large palm coming to rest on Jaskier’s chest. For once, Jaskier regrets unbuttoning his chemises so often, as calloused fingers slip under the collar to touch his bare skin. “Your heart.” Geralt says quietly. And he’s right. It’s pounding so loudly it’s all Jaskier can hear. 

Jaskier bites his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, willing himself to breathe slow and steady as he speaks, “It was just a dream, I’m sure.” 

“Hm,” 

Geralt’s hand does not move from his chest, and Jaskier doesn’t sleep. He questions- his thoughts, his dreams, the touch. Everything is too much. 

\-- 

It wasn’t real, he decides. It couldn’t be. Geralt had never said those words to anyone, and he likely never would. If Geralt did have those feelings for Jaskier, he wouldn’t voice them; he probably wouldn’t even know he has them. That’s how he knows it’s not real. Still, it doesn’t stop him from wondering- dreaming, daydreaming, imagining, hoping, wishing- 

“That plate was clean a few minutes ago,” Vesemir says quizzically, eyeing Jaskier suspiciously. 

_That’s right-_

It’s been a few days, and he still can’t seem to clear the dream from his head. He thinks of it often, trying not to forget what the words sounded like through Geralt’s voice. 

Now, he’s supposed to be helping Vesemir with the dishes after another hearty dinner. Eskel cooked this time, made a delightful stew, all things considered. None of the witchers are bad cooks, except maybe Vesemir, but they aren’t quite brilliant either. They don’t bother collecting rare ingredients or getting luxurious meats on account of their permanent state of poverty and reluctance to waste. They take turns cooking and cleaning for each other over the winter, and it’s been nice. Jaskier likes the domesticity of it and enjoys the larger kitchen where he can make some of the traditional foods he grew up with that just don’t work over a campfire in the woods. 

He doesn’t even mind the cleaning, maybe because he never has to do dishes throughout the rest of the year. Normally, he would chat with whoever he was helping, but it seems he’s been awfully quiet tonight. 

“What is bothering you, Bard?” Vesemir asks, frowning at where Jaskier has been scrubbing the same plate mindlessly for who knows how long. 

“Oh,” Jaskier laughs “Nothing, I was just distracted- composing, as one does when doing dishes.” 

Vesemir hums thoughtfully, and Jaskier thinks he really will drop it, but he speaks up again “I am over ten times your age, and I have spent most of that life discerning the feelings of emotionally repressed witchers. You’re far too transparent to lie.” 

“Ah-” Jaskier cringes, “Fair enough. If I must be honest, I have a question then.” 

“Go ahead,” 

Jaskier thinks for a moment, attempting to word it properly. He doesn’t want to be too obvious, but if he can’t lie, he’ll simply stretch the truth. “Do witchers ever settle down?” when Vesemir doesn’t answer immediately, Jaskier scrambles to clarify, “Geralt told me no witcher dies in his own bed, which may as well be very true, but some must find companions of some sort- It was not a surprise to the others when Geralt was coupled with Yennefer, as unconventional as it may have been, and we all know Lambert is hiding _someone_. I’ve been rather curious what typical protocol is- for scholarly purposes, of course.” 

Vesemir runs his hand over his beard, contemplating a response for some time before he speaks “Yes, they say no witcher has died in his own bed. It is a life without rest, without wealth, and without company, normally. But there are not many witchers left, nor are there as many monsters as there once were. It is not… unheard of for witchers to settle down, in a sense- if those they settle with are willing to walk the Path with them. T _heoretically_ speaking.” he offers a small smile. He seems to see right through Jaskier’s fib but plays along anyways. 

Jaskier tries not to react too obviously. He nods his head as if he were in a lecture at Oxenfurt, noting the differences between ballads across the continent. “Right, _theoretically_ , that makes sense.” 

“We don’t live a traditional life, but peace is important for witchers too. That is part of the reason we gather here each winter, after all. Of course, Witchers may take breaks from the Path, but it is part of who we are to always be ready to help others when need arises.” 

Jaskier nods his head again, slower and more thoughtfully this time. That sort of answers his question. Vesemir doesn’t say it directly, but he seems to have nothing against the idea of a witcher having a permanent romantic relationship- part of Jaskier wonders if other witchers wouldn’t have been so lenient on the topic. It’s not exactly that he wants or expects Geralt to buy a house and live a normal human life right now- _or ever_. If being with Geralt means walking the Path forever, then so be it. Though, somewhere to call home between contracts might be nice one day… 

“Whatever you have in mind, I am confident you will find a way.” 

“I-” he begins but realizes he doesn’t have anything to say. “Perhaps.” 

A moment of silence passes between them, Jaskier handing Vesemir another plate to dry before the eldest witcher speaks again “Now what was that about Lambert?” 

Jaskier swallows thickly, a sudden jolt of fear running through him. Guess everyone _didn’t_ know about that… How is he going to talk his way out of this one? 

\-- 

Jaskeir spends a lot of his free time wondering around Kaer Morhen. He tries to find a different hideaway each day to work on his songs and poetry, trying to avoid places in which the fortress’ integrity seems compromised. However, there is a certain beauty in the dilapidation of it all. 

One sunny morning, he’s greeted by Geralt with little more than a grunt and what appears to be wadded up clothes being thrust into his arms. 

“We’re going.” The witcher huffs, a deep frown on his face. He’s still in his armor, heart pumping from coming off the training grounds with Lambert and Eskel. 

“What? Where?” Jaskier sputters, unfolding the leather that was thrown at him “What’s this?” 

“Nearby town has a contract and supplies for winter-” Geralt explains. He doesn’t look up from his task where he shoves spare clothes, bottles, and food into an empty sack “Armor. Wear it.” 

Jaskier’s eyes roam over it, taking in the details. It’s not like any armor he’s ever seen before “It’s beautiful. Where did you get this?” 

“It’s witcher gear, so…” 

“You made it?” 

He doesn’t reply, but that’s answer enough for the bard. 

“Thank you, Geralt.” Jaskier smiles, warmth filling his voice. Normally he would tease, but he knows better than that; even witchers can be shy, and this is something he’d rather not make Geralt feel uncomfortable about. 

“Hm,” he doesn’t say anything for a long while “I know you’re stubborn- wouldn’t wear anything you didn’t find fashionable.” 

“Yes, that’s true I suppose.” 

“Don’t expect you to help with the hunt, but the ride down can be dangerous this time of the year, you know.” 

“Yes, of course,” Jaskier agrees, only half attempting to hide the glee in his voice. 

Geralt hasn’t given him many gifts in his life; food, shelter, protection, and company were all readily shared between them, and to Jaskier, that was more than enough. From time to time, if Jaskier had coin, he liked to splurge on treats for Geralt but not normally items to keep- things like sweets from bakeries, nicer rooms at the inn, or deluxe services from a smith to fix his armor or sword. But having something to hold and keep- something to wear often specially from Geralt… Even if it’s supposed to be practical, it makes him feel all warm and giddy inside. 

\-- 

Geralt begins to relax once they’re on the road, rolling his shoulders and sighing happily. Snow falls around them lightly, but it melts as soon as it hits the warm dirt of the road. At night, it will ice up and become too dangerous to travel on, and in a few weeks, the snow will fully engulf the land. However, a small trek to the mountainside town isn’t too far for the witchers. If the bard were still human, it likely wouldn’t be so easy. 

Crisp air nips at their ears and noses, but with a warm jacket wrapped around his armor, Jaskier doesn’t seem to feel too bothered by it. Geralt is less sensitive to the cold- whether it’s the extra mutations or years of training, he’s not sure. 

They both ride Roach for the first stretch of the trip. Vesemir had offered Jaskier his horse, but it’s not far, and the witchers at the keep should have a mount available in case of an emergency; besides, it’s easier to share heat with Jaskier’s arms wrapped around his waist. When they get closer to town, they’ll walk to give Roach a break. She probably doesn’t need it, but he likes to give her rest when he can. 

“So, what inspired this little trip?” Jaskier muses, and Geralt can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Started to feel cooped up. It’s a big place but not big enough.” In truth, he’d had one too many tiffs with Lambert, and every interaction he’s had with Jaskier as of late feels like they’re being watched. He was beginning to feel suffocated, to say the least. 

“Do you always get like this in winter?” 

He hums thoughtful, conjuring up endless memories of winters before. “Yea, occasionally,” not normally this bad, though. It was like having the bard there made him crave their usual outings and adventures even more. 

A cold gust of wind pushes wet snowflakes into their eyes, and Geralt feels Jaskier burry his face against the his shoulder before he speaks again, now muffled by the fabric of Geralt’s cloak, “What do you normally do?” 

“Hunt forktails with Eskel or…” he trails off as he thinks “Sometimes I visit the ruins of the old towers and training grounds. Wraiths tend to commune there. It’s good to clean them out once and awhile. Maybe we should stop by one of the lookout towers on our way back. It’s a nice view.” 

“I’d like that,” Jaskier smiles. 

Besides, it shows a bit of the history of Kaer Morhen, doubtlessly that’s something Jaskier would enjoy. 

\-- 

It takes them around two hours to get to the town. They could’ve made better time if they rode Roach the whole way, but Geralt is in no hurry, and he doesn’t like to push Roach much over the winter; horses deserve vacations, too. 

In the valley, the sun is shining, and the air is warmer. No snow has gathered on the trees here yet, and some birds still chirp in the sky. It’s enough to prompt them to shrug off their jackets and cloaks, throwing them over Roach’s saddle instead. 

Geralt’s eyes fall on Jaskier as the bard looks up into the sky, smiling happily as the sun rays hit him, illuminating his skin with a golden hue. Geralt hadn’t gotten a good look at the armor on him before they left as he covered it up quickly with something warmer. Despite the cold winter, he chose to wear it just as the Cat witchers would have, a short sleeve tunic underneath, exposing his toned biceps. Of course, he left the top of the vest unclasped, exposing his open tunic and chest. Gloveless bracers cover his forearms because Jaskier would never cover his hands. The pants fit him snugly- he did steal a pair of Jaskier’s trousers for comparison. Witcher pants always fit snuggly, but Geralt hadn’t considered the possibly ramifications of it being so… distracting. 

Jaskier seems to notice him staring, but instead of teasing, the bard just smiles, beaming and drenched in the light of the setting sun as he tugs Geralt farther into town. 

It’s a small town, not much to it, but it has an inn and farmers often gather to sell their produce. Vesemir comes here often, as he spends a better part of the year at Kaer Morhen. The townspeople are familiar with him; they know him well. And without his armor, Vesemir can pass off as a regular old man to those that don’t look too closely. Even if they do, his age and constant smile seems to calm many humans. 

Geralt, on the other hand, is an unfamiliar and looming presence. The people here know of the wolves that live in the hills, but that doesn’t mean they happily accept any witcher that rolls through town. He’s quick to hear complaints and scoffs when they walk into the more populated streets. It’s not as bad; they’re rude, not malicious. Except this time, he knows Jaskier can hear them too. And he knows that Jaskier may now become a target of these complaints. 

“Oh, that’s bad luck,” one man grumbles upon catching sight of Geralt’s cat eyes. 

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, but when he glances to the bard, Jaskier is frowning deeply. 

“We should talk to the innkeeper-” he tries to divert the bard’s attention, “she knows Vesemir well. Will surely have a contract for us while we’re down here.” 

“I thought you already had one?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head curiously. Something in his eyes sparkles with mischief that both concerns and excites Geralt. 

“Did I? Meant to say we’d get one.” 

“But we might not.” 

“We will.” 

“But if we didn’t, you’re saying you’d risk traveling all this way just to hang out with me?” 

Geralt does his best to glare, but the edges of his mouth tilt up in the barest hint of a smile- he’s been found out. It seems it will be even harder to slip things past his bard now. Still doesn’t mean he’ll admit it, though. “No. We still need supplies while we’re here.” 

“All work and no play.” Jaskeir huffs, “Just admit how much you enjoy my company, my dearest witcher.” 

Geralt most definitely doesn’t do that, but when he looks at Jaskier, even with his teasing and prodding, he feels a warmth build in him, threatening to boil over, burst from where he’s so carefully tried to contain it, and announce itself to the world. So, he finds a distraction as he always does. “I’m going to get us a room. Try not to let your ego inflate too much in the meantime.” 

As he walks away, ducking into the inn, he hears Jaskier’s indignant sputtering in the distance. He’s not surprised the bard chooses to peruse the measly town while he barters with the innkeeper for a room. Though, Jaskier is always better at bartering than him. 

Geralt pointedly doesn’t question his own choice to ask for one room regardless of the inn’s availability. So what if they have extra coin in the winter? They always share a room. 

Ale and food are on the table for both of them by the time Jaskier joins him in the tavern. The night is still young, yet vibrant pink hues of the setting sun stream through the window panes. 

Jaskier sits across from Geralt, smug and self-satisfied smile plastered on his face. He doesn’t say a word, just daring Geralt to inquire as to what has gotten into him. 

“Let me guess, no contracts?” Geralt asks flatly. Jaskier was right, he would have been more than happy with this short get away with his bard, but he had been hoping for a chance to make some coin and burn off some steam. 

Jaskier crosses his legs and leans on the table, nearly preening. “Well, maybe no contracts for you, dear friend. I, on the other hand, have found mine.” He shoots Geralt a toothy grin, holding up a roll of parchment between his fingers, waving it slightly as if to brag. 

Geralt’s eyebrows furrow, a little unsure of exactly what the bard is trying to imply. “I didn’t think they had job postings for performances in a place like this,” he frowns. 

“Don’t be ridiculous! The whole town could show up and still be nary enough people for a proper audience. No, I got a contract- a witcher contract.” 

Geralt quickly snatches the curled paper out of Jaskier’s hand “Give me that,” he hisses; he’s already dreading where this is going. Geralt skims the paper quickly- old, yellowed and cracked parchment with messy black ink. The contract must have been out for at least a few weeks- something about cattle going missing without a trace on the edge of town. 

It’s a common scenario- plenty of things feast on cattle, and the humans can never tell the difference between an arachnomorph and an overgrown tarantula on a good day- much less the dozens of beasts that take interest in cows. 

“I thought we agreed, you’re a bard, not a witcher.” 

Jaskier crosses his arms, chin held high, “And I thought you wanted to train me to protect myself better.” 

He is right, but taking on a real contract this early- it doesn’t sit right with Geralt. He knows part of it is the boredom. Jaskier certainly enjoys his time at Kaer Morhen, but there isn’t as much for him to do as Geralt or his brothers. And when the bard gets restless, he gets reckless. It explains why every time they separate, Jaskier is almost always tangled up in some mess by the time Geralt finds him again. Somehow, the witcher knows his only option is to control the chaos this will bring rather than avoid it all together. 

He frowns “You don’t even know what’s responsible for this.” 

“Forktail. Easy.” Jaskier says with all the pride of a blind fool. He takes a long victory drink of his ale, silently gloating as if he’s already won the argument. 

Geralt resists the urge to laugh; if Jaskier is so sure of himself, he certainly won’t mind if Geralt tests his monster knowledge. “Could be a katakan.” 

“No body left behind.” 

“Arachnmorph.” 

“Hibernating.” 

“Wolves.” 

“They’re all at Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier teases, the dumb joke earning him an eyeroll from Geralt. “Fine, fine- We- I mean, _I_ will just have to investigate the site of the disappearance for... tuffs of hair?” it’s not the most convincing thing to hear the uncertainty in his voice, but Geralt doesn’t interject. “I’ve seen you do this hundreds of times! I’ll be fine. Get your own contract, and we’ll make it a friendly competition!” 

“No. No way.” Geralt fusses “Why are you so insistent about this?” 

“Maybe I want to be versatile, Geralt. I’m already a master of the seven liberal arts. Make it eight.” 

“Hunting is an art?” 

“Of course, why do you think they call you _Master_ Witcher?” And there it is- Jaskier’s bottom lip juts out in a staged pout as he bats his long eyelashes at Geralt the way he always does when he wants something. “Please. It’ll be fun,” he smiles sweetly. 

_Fuck_ _it_ . Geralt sighs, taking a long drink of his ale in a feeble attempt to ease his midn . _Have a little faith, Geralt_ , he tells himself. “Okay. You want to chase after this, fine. But I’m not letting you out of my sight. And no competition- you want to take a contract, we do it the right way.” 

Jaskier bites his lip, suppressing a victorious grin, “Are you sure? Maybe you’re just too chicken?” 

“No.” 

“Well then, maybe you just enjoy watching me too much?” 

“ _No_.” 

“Lots of people do, Geralt. It’s nothing to be ashamed- _ow_!” Jaskier yelps as Geralt’s foot collides with his shin, forcefully. 

“Shut up while you’re ahead, Jask.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and wonderful comments! You all encourage me so much! And thank you for your patience with updates. If anyone's curious- I finished writing my MA thesis, and now I'm working on revisions/preparing for my defense. So, it's still a busy time, but things are slowing down and I have PLANS for the next few chapters. >:D


	11. The Bard's Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Just a lil warning there is some (mild?) description of the monster’s lunch, so mentions of blood and the poor cow that was its victim (but no description of the actual violence). Anyways, I’ll still mark the beginning and end of that with asterisks (****) in case anyone doesn’t want to read that part.

The next morning, Jaskier wakes earlier than Geralt for once, determined not to let him pursue the contract Jaskier had picked himself. It’s not that the bard was considering a change in career, per se, but having all these new skills and abilities is exhilarating! And there was only so much he could test at Kaer Morhen.

Their night at the inn was much easier than before. Jaskier even played some of his songs for the crowd without his senses feeling too overwhelmed. Now, his mind was the one suffering. Those three little words repeat in his mind like a mantra to the point he no longer knows if he’s imagining Geralt saying them or wishing to say them back to him.

So, perhaps the contract is more of a much-needed distraction- something he can focus on other than hallucinations of love confessions.

****

“So,” Geralt asks, arms crossed as they stand in the large grassy field, “Still happy you took this contract?”

They talked to the farmer after a hearty breakfast, and Jaskier had even managed to get their pay increased on the basis of the monster being unknown. Of course, he talked up the potential danger of the situation, but it worked. All was going according to plan, and Geralt had been surprisingly absent of complaints as well.

Jaskier now realizes why.

In front of them in the field lies a maimed cow head and an unreasonably large puddle of blood, all stinking of spoiled meat. There’s a spattering of pieces of flesh thrown about that he’s sure only hint at the beast’s real destructive power. The Witcher next to him smirks smugly, awaiting Jaskier’s admitted defeat. But he won’t have it! He isn’t backing down… at least not entirely.

“Of course, Geralt. However, now that we’re here, I think it’s a good time to say that while I very much would like to try using these skills, I foresee you being the one to take down the forktail.”

“Oh, that was implied when I agreed to this.” Geralt teases.

“Only because I want you to feel useful! I did promise to continue to be your bard, after all.”

“Mhm.” He hums, disbelievingly.

“I just think my skills are better suited for the investigation portion of the hunt. I am a scholar, after all. So, I’ll take a wack or two at it, then I’ll let you finish it off.” Jaskier’s prattles on, talking far too much with his hands as he’s known to when he feels nervous- it’s just a hint of nervousness. He has Geralt here. Geralt won’t make him fend off a beast just to prove a point… _right_?

“Jaskier.” Geralt huffs impatiently, “Get on with it.”

“Right, now that that’s settled- to work!”

He starts by walking around the carnage for a moment or two, doing his best not to get anything on his boots. He’s seen Geralt do this countless times, and he always seems to inspect the area around him before he picks up a trail. Jaskier can see an endless amount of cow hoof prints in the ground but no monster prints. “As I suspected, it came from the sky! One point for forktail.”

“Except forktails feed on goats, not cows. They’re not that big, Jask.” Geralt shakes his head slightly.

“It was a small cow,” Jaskier replies. “A youngen’, as the farmer said. You would know that if you had’ve been listening, my dear.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, “Alright, it came from the sky. Now what?”

“Well,” jaskier pauses to think. He hears Geralt sniffle behind him and- ah! An idea comes to him. “this smell is horrendous. We can follow it!” He exclaims.

Jaskier inhales deeply, grimacing as the smell of copper and rot fills his senses. Yet, as he wonders closer to the forest, he’s able to pick up a trail. It’s quite different than the way he used his sense of smell as a human. He’s able to track the scents more precisely, almost as if he could see it. For some time, he does just that, Geralt following and watching as they go. Droplets of blood splattered on the path and surrounding bushes lead his way until eventually, it’s gone.

****

Deep into the forest, green canopies and songbirds above them, the scent of blood stops, and so does Jaskier. He feels like a lost dog sniffing in every direction; he’s unable to pick up on anything past this point. A quick scan of the area, and he doesn’t spot anything else to follow.

He’s given a few minutes to fumble until he hears Geralt’s deep voice behind him, surprisingly not too smug yet, “Stuck?”

“No, I’m simply pausing to think.”

“Hm,” Geralt circles him like prey, examining the area around them before coming to a stop close behind Jaskier.

Large, warm hands come up to rest on his shoulders, and Geralt leans in close, so close, to whisper in Jaskier’s ear, “look up.”

His heart must skip a beat- He can feel the Witchers hot breath against his skin and the warmth radiating off of him. Jaskier’s heart screams at him to lean back into the body behind him, to be enveloped in Geralt’s heat, but he somehow controls himself, does what Geralt asked, and gazes up at the tops of the trees.

There, he sees broken sticks hanging down and spots where leaves have all but been stripped bare- as if something had collided with the tops of the trees.

“Ah! Our friend seems to have forgotten to fly high enough for its bounty to clear the trees.” Jaskier grins. “They must have gone that way!” Jaskier sets off, an added bounce in his step, to follow his contract. Behind him, he can hear Geralt huff, light and fond and far too amused by the bard’s excitement. It must seem mundane to him, following beasts. To Jaskier, though, it’s exciting and fun! He always loved watching Geralt work, but something about using his new abilities for real life purposes is so satisfying. The little smiles Geralt gives him when he does something right don’t hurt either.

It's not long until they come to the edge of the forest, a large clearing just beyond them. Jaskier smiles to himself triumphantly as they both register the steady sound of wings flapping nearby. That means he’s on the right track, and he’s proud of that- not that he ever doubted himself, of course!

“What’s your plan, oh great hunter?” Geralt asks through a teasing smile.

Jaskier rolls his eyes dramatically before whispering back “I’m going to take the crossbow and make a few hits until the forktail is forced to land. Then, we can do our thing.”

‘ _Our thing’_ is a little bit of an over exaggeration. Jaskier has no allusion here- Geralt is going to take charge, as he usually does, and swing into action the second he sees the slightest threat. Jaskier will most likely stand behind him, gripping the old, loaner sword Vesemir gave them to practice with.

Knowing this, Geralt nods- surprisingly void of teasing or mockery this time. “Try to stay hidden until you make the first hit.”

As they creep up to the tree line, Jaskier can feel his witcher following much more closely behind him, a protective shadow of sorts. He tries to focus, evening out his steps, controlling his breathing, and focusing his eyes just as he’s been practicing. Once settled near the clearing, under the camouflage of the bushes, Jaskier can see his target.

Bright red and ragged wings draw his attention first. The rest of the forktail is dirty green and greys, dull scales that hardly catch the sunlight, and as many spikes that can possibly fit onto the reptilian body poke out everywhere. It is not the poet’s first time seeing one of these, but as he faces it with a measly weapon and only a fundamental grasp of witcher training, Jaskier becomes more and more thankful Geralt didn’t agree to let him go alone.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, steadying his bow as he lines up to strike. The forktail circles above, the remainder of its meal in the clearing below them. Jaskier waits until he’s sure of the beast’s flying pattern and lets his first arrow go. He can hear a horrible thud as it makes contact, followed by the angry screeches of the forktail.

“It hit, you can breathe.” He hears behind him. And he’s right. Jaskier lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He glances only momentarily to see Geralt smiling at him with what might just be pride. “Again.”

Jaskier moves faster, and his second hit pierces the beast’s wing. This time, the beast catches sight of them in the tree lines and with uneven flaps of its wings, makes its way toward them. Geralt is quick to make his stand, sword in hand, he steps out into the clearing, and positions himself between Jaskier and the incoming beast.

“It’s injured,” Geralt murmurs.

“Of course it’s-” Jaskier begins, but his protests are caught in his throat when he sees the deep gashes torn across the forktail’s belly like something larger had already gotten to it. He isn’t left wondering what is for long, though. As the forktail nears them, it’s plucked out the sky by a large griffin swooping down, jagged claws viciously grabbing it in a crushing grip.

“What the fuck?” Jaskier yelps.

Geralt huffs, tense and braced for battle in front of him “Looks like we walked into a territory dispute.”

With the forktail tossed aside, hitting the ground with a heavy thump, the griffin circles back, intent on attacking them. Large talons extended, it swoops at Geralt. The witcher is quick to fend it off with a few powerful bursts of Igni and a swing of his sword. He aims with purpose, pushing it back and away from Jaskier.

The bard watches, enraptured by the dance between the witcher and the griffon, his own sword gripped tightly in his hand. It’s a female, as indicated by her larger size and lack of color variation, if Jaskier remembers correctly- which means she’s more dangerous than her mate.

_Her mate._

Jaskier only gets a few second’s warning before he’s hit with the deafening shriek of the other griffin swooping down on him.

His mind yells out to alert Geralt, call for help, but he knows his friend is already struggling to handle the situation with one outraged beast. He only has a mere moment to act and as razor sharp claws near him, all he can think to do is what he saw Geralt do- cast a sign. His hand flies out as if of its own volition, and a cloud of fire and smoke erupts in front of him. His aim is sure, and the griffin quickly retreats with a horrible squawk as the tips of its feathers catch fire.

The glory of triumph is fleeting as the searing pain in his hand registers in his brain- he’s burnt himself. White, hot stinging consumes his fingertips, and above him, the male griffin circles again.

“Oh! Oh- fuck, Geralt! Fuck.” he yells frantically. Geralt is there in a heartbeat, dragging him back by the collar of his armor, shoving Jaskier behind him.

“Dammit!” He curses. Geralt’s eyes flit around their surroundings quickly until they land on the rocky cliffside on the edge of the opening “Run!” he yells, pulling Jaskier behind him before he can even reply.

The bard follows, tripping over his feet as he struggles to keep up, doing his best not to think about the pain in his fingers or the griffins close on their heals; adrenaline runs through him so steadily he swears his heartbeat must be the speed of a human’s. But he sees what Geralt was looking at- a small crevice in the cliffside gives way to a cave deep enough for them to hide in! With hope in sight, Jaskier runs faster. Geralt shoves him inside first, casting a powerful burst of Aard behind him to knock back the griffin closing in on them before the witcher follows him in.

\--

The cave is filled with the sound of their painting and heavy heartbeats. Water quietly drips from the ceiling, but otherwise, everything is silent. No creatures in sight, just damp stone and the remnants of what was once a campsite for other weary, possibly unfortunate, travelers. Outside, the griffins circle them, occasionally crying out or dropping down to try and peer into their hideout. But they’re safe. For now, at least.

Finally, once he’s caught his breath, Geralt growls out “Dammit, Jaskier. I told you Igni is dangerous.”

“I tried it with Eskel just fine.” He whines from where he’s slumped on the floor of the cave.

Even if he had’ve been successful, his signs aren’t good enough to hurt something like arch-griffons. Though, saying that won’t help the situation, so Geralt breathes deeply and does his best to push his frustration down. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Jaskier nods, but his eyes are big and his bottom lip is sticking out like he was a little kid who scraped his knee. He stares at his fingertips, the red angry skin staring back.

Geralt sighs, but he kneels next to his bard regardless. He takes Jaskier’s hand in his ever so gently to examine the burn. “Hm.”

“What is it?” Jaskier asks, voice a little wobbly with concern. “It’s okay. I can take it. Just tell me- am I going to be okay? Will- will I lose feeling? Be scarred forever? What?”

“You'll heal by the time we get back to Kaer Morhen.” Geralt rolls his eyes, but there’s warmth in his voice. He does his best not to laugh at the bard’s panic. It seems to help, as his pout quickly shifts into a tense smile. “I don’t have my potions, but this abandoned camp might have leftover supplies we can use to bandage that.”

Jaskier nods, beginning to stand to help search. Geralt puts a heavy hand on his shoulder “Stay. I can look.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier smiles.

Geralt tilts his head, raising an eyebrow at him “You’d be useless with one hand anyways.”

Jaskier sputters as Geralt turns to rummage through the supplies in the cave. Its not very deep, but it’s big enough for a fair sized group of travelers to make camp in it. Toward the back of the cave, a few old bedrolls and bags are thrown about, some dustier than others. Geralt kneels down to pick up one, dumping it’s contents on the floor. An empty wine skin, rock hard bread, a rusty dagger, and- ah, some cloth that will work as bandages.

Geralt smiles to himself triumphantly, scooping up the cloth from where it lay on the rocks. When he does, a piece of parchment falls out.

He should just leave it, tend to Jaskier first, but his curiosity gets to him. Geralt snatches it up, unfolding the parchment to read.

As his eyes flit across the words on the page, he can’t believe what he reads. “Motherfuckers.” Geralt hisses.

“What?” Jaskier chirps from the front of the cave.

“Found a note,” He grumbles, “Says there’s griffin eggs back here.”

“But I thought the griffins couldn’t get back here.”

According to the note, the eggs should be in the back right corner of the cave. He quickly follows the directions, gently moving aside a pile of aged and worn through blankets until he finds them. Three large, speckled eggs sit in a basket, leaned up against each other. It must not have been long since they were put here, otherwise smaller creatures surely would have scavenged them.

“Shit, ones broken.” He sighs “Griffins can’t get back here. This is a drop spot for black market traders. Explains why their camp is still intact. Found a note, some guy named _Morhat_ is supposed to pick these up.” He sighs heavily “It’s always humans. They should know better. Yet, they always bring their own downfall.”

“How horrible! So, that’s why those griffons are so pissed, and rightfully too- their children were kidnapped!” Jaskier exclaims.

“Hm,” Geralt nods, returning to the bard at the front of the cave. He kneels down to begin bandaging his burnt hand as they speak. “They’re just panicking- probably think we’re the traders.”

Jaskier purses his lips for a moment, watching Geralt as he works before he speaks “Don’t kill the griffins, Geralt. Please. There must be another way. They didn’t do anything wrong. They wouldn’t have even wondered this close to civilization if it weren’t for their stollen children,” When Geralt looks up, they’re so close. It’s distracting. He does his best to give him an incredulous look before adverting his gaze to Jaskier’s hand. “Ah, I see the argument in your eyes!” Jaskier exclaims before Geralt can say a word. The bard raises his hand, pointing as he speaks “The forktail was taken care of! So, one could say we already slew the contracted beast.”

He doesn’t answer at first, focusing on his task. He tears the cloth into smaller pieces, wrapping it gently around Jaskier’s individual fingers. He’ll still be able to move just fine, but it will keep his fingers protected in case he needs to use his hands.

 _Scholars_. Of course, Jaskeir would search for loopholes and technicalities. He isn’t wrong though. Yet, Jaskier has nothing to gain from it. As Geralt stares at Jaskier’s wide, pleading eyes, he can’t help but chuckle to himself. Jaskier is, at times, a liar and sleaze, reckless and foolish, seeks pleasure and fun above most else, but at the end of it all, he is compassionate beyond what Geralt believed possible in humans. His heart remains pure despite the ruin they face day in and day out in their world, and that is precisely what Geralt cherishes in him so much.

_It’s almost like he’s able to love anything- even monsters._

“I won’t kill them, Jask.”

He couldn’t if he wanted to, not with the way Jaskier looks at him. He knows he doesn’t deserve him, and moments like this are just a reminder of that. Someone as sensitive and kindhearted as Jaskier doesn’t belong chasing _mutants_ around-

Geralt’s thoughts are interrupted by the bard’s twinkling smile, surely brighter than the sun. “Oh, what a brilliant ballad this will make! A tale of kindness and- hm, would be better if the griffins repaid us for our good deeds in some way…” jaskier muses, his tongue sticking out slightly as one finger taps his chin, most likely formulating half truths and believable lies into lyrics already.

“What? You want them to pay you?” Geralt snorts “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes “Crows bring shiny things to those they befriend and never forget a face. Griffins are rather crow-like, don’t you think?”

Geralt hums amusedly, standing to busy himself with gathering the griffin eggs “Sure wouldn’t mind my weight in gold. Or maybe if we’re lucky, they won’t kill us.”

“That is a good gift too.”

“Ya think?” Geralt chides “Now help me gather these eggs near the entrance of the cavern. We’ll push them out where their parents can pick them up when they’re not looking. Hopefully, our peace offering will make them leave.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“We’ll be here a long time.” Geralt answers flatly. 

\--

Their plan works, but it takes time for the griffins to clear out. So, they wait sitting against the wall of the cave, no fire to keep them warm. When a chill sets in around them, if he lets the bard tuck himself under Geralt’s arm, it’s just for warmth.

Jaskier begins to doze at some point, his head falling to rest on Geralt’s shoulder, one of his arms thrown around his waist. It’s _nice_. But that’s the problem. It’s all _too_ nice. The comfort and silence leave Geralt’s mind to wonder.

He’s been afflicted between his own self-doubt and a selfish desire for something more.

He can’t forget what he told Jaskier in the heat of the moment when he thought the bard was dying. He knows there was some truth in it, but more than anything, he knows Jaskier deserves better- deserves to be safe, to be with someone who can reciprocate his feelings with such passion and vibrancy as Jaskier expresses his affections. Geralt is rough and prickly and even if he has gotten better about being kind or open with his feelings, he isn’t made to be a lover. He’s a witcher. One day, Jaskier will get tired of life on the road, and settling down in a nice cottage by the coast isn’t exactly something Geralt can offer him. If not earlier, he'll surely know by then that Geralt isn't what he wants in life- but by then, it'll be too late to salvage whats left of their friendship.

Yet, the idea of letting go of the possibility of _more_ is beyond painful; he’s noticed Jaskier’s increased affections and the implications his brothers have made at his expense. It’s not impossible the bard might be curious about pursuing something further between them. But perhaps he will get lucky- perhaps, they will be able to maintain this middle ground, this balancing act between friends and whatever more there could be.

Next to him, Jaskier lets out a quiet snore, stirring to press tighter against Geralt’s side. It brings a warmth to his chest and a smile to his face.

_One can hope._

\--

By the time they get back to the tavern, the sun had set long ago, and a bone-deep cold has come over the town. It took some time for the griffins to leave, even after they collected their eggs. Jaskier had watched with rapt attention as they gently and carefully scooped up each individual egg into their beaks to bring back to their nest. Best of all, Geralt didn’t even complain about Jaskier’s bleeding heart, for once.

The sight of the warm inn is like a gift from the heavens. Jaskier’s stomach growls in anticipation of a victory meal. Sure, the farmer refused to pay them for the forktail, considering they couldn’t collect its head, but far more significant was that they did a good deed today.

“Ah, civilization,” Jaskier hums delightedly, spreading his arms wide as they enter the tavern.

Geralt raises an eyebrow, skeptically appraising the group of villagers in front of him. Judging from the heavy scent of alcohol floating through the room, _civilized_ might not be the best word. As if to prove the point, a burly, dirt covered man shoulder checks Geralt before they even have a chance to sit down.

“Watch it,” the man hisses. Geralt only grunts, not giving him the satisfaction of an apology or reaction.

As they approach the bar to order food and drink, Jaskier can’t help but tune in on the sound of the man’s loud, and dreadfully graceless, steps. Behind them, he joins a group of men, most of which look more worse for wear than Geralt and Jaskier- a true feat that was on most days.

“Ey, Morhat, you see the sum we got from our last shipment? Good pickings if you ask me.” He hears one of the men say to him. Geralt and Jaskier turn to each other, and from the look in his eyes, Geralt is thinking the same thing Jaskier is.

The table of men chuckle, oblivious to the threat they could’ve brought to the village and the cruelty of their actions.

“You’re the piece of shit that stole those griffins’ eggs?!” Geralt growls, spinning to face them.

“Oh look, the freak can talk,” the man, Morhat, chuckles to his friends “So what if I did? You’re a _mutant_ designed to kill _monsters_. You should be thanking me, really.”

Jaskier glowers, albeit, not nearly as intimidatingly as Geralt may, but he can see the hurt in Geralt’s eyes, behind the stoic, impassive expression he so carefully tries to guard himself with. It makes Jaskier’s gut twist and blood boil- a dangerous combination, really.

Geralts jaw tenses and untenses several times before his expression lands on a slight smirk. “You should be more careful with how you handle your _shipments_.”

“What did you do, witcher?!” The man roars, jumping out of his seat.

Geralt cocks his head to the side, eyes flicking from the man to his men, then to their surroundings as he makes mental notes of any and all threats around him. “Nothing. Couldn’t help but notice your goods were returned to their rightful owner.” The man opens his mouth to speak, but Geralt cuts him off, stepping toward him “You don’t know what you’re messing with. Those griffins would have stopped at nothing to find their eggs. You would have been dooming this town to rubble.” He grimaces, but his words aren’t loud enough to reach everyone in the tavern. Geralt has enough sense not to cause a scene. The man he’s facing does not.

“I ought to gut you, you- you _beast!_ ”

The air around them is tense, the tension threatening to snap between them as onlookers prepare- planning an escape route or mentally choosing which side they’ll take when the fighting begins. A saner man than Jaskier would use his witcher reflexes to his advantage, pull a knife or throw a brutal punch to scare their aggressors off. But Jaskier never was conventional- sometimes, saving face and humiliating one’s opponent in the process is the better option.

Jaskier quickly hoists himself up, climbing to stand on top of the nearest table. He gives his best dazzling smile to the confused patrons of the tavern, smugglers included, and holds up his lute with the most confidence he can muster.

“Excuse me, good citizens, I have a tale to tell, a song to sing- about the brave witcher who saved this very town from a fleet of griffins after one of their own had so selfishly, knowingly endangered everyone for his own profit by stealing and murdering their young,” Jaskier pauses, watching as the leader’s eyes grow both in fury and fear. He waits a beat for someone to cut in “and it goes like-”

“Is this true?!” The innkeeper yells from across the room. She is small and older but Jaskier can tell she is to be feared. The woman stomps toward them without fear “Morhat, you fiend, what have you done bringing griffins to our town?!”

“The troubadour lies! We have done no such thing.”

For a heavy moment of silence, Jaskier wonders if the man’s trickery will work, if the town will believe them and throw them out, denying all witchers forevermore. Yet, in the back of the room, a small woman stands up “I heard ye discussing your earnings! I heard him, I did. Said they sold in Novigrad’s black market, he did.” She shouts. Her outburst seems to embolden the others in the room.

“My cows were stollen because of you!” the farmer they helped yells out from the crowd. “Griffins swooped down right from the sky to take them- my livelihood!”

It was a forktail, but Jaskier doesn’t correct him. Truth doesn’t earn respect he once said. That stands true in times like this.

“You could have brought ruin on us all!” another patron yells.

It isn’t long before the man and his gang are booed out of the tavern, a few loafs of bread soaring through the air after them. Jaskier and Geralt watch with relief. Though, they aren’t out of the woods just yet. The townspeople could be equally upset with them for starting a ruckus.

Jaskier watches with bated breath as the Innkeep turns to Geralt. The woman smiles, fond eyes wrinkling at the edges. “I knew you’d be a good one when you said you were one of Vesemir’s boys,” She smiles. “Drinks and food on the house tonight, boys.”

Jaskier grins at Geralt, taking in the quirk of his lips at the good news “Thank you. We appreciate your hospitality.”

“Anytime,” she replies before turning to Jaskier. “Now, bard. Get off my damn table.”

“Yes ma’am!” he chirps. Geralt offers him a hand as he hops down, the old wood wobbling underneath his feet. “Whew, glad they folded as quickly as they did- I haven’t yet written the song. Actually, I don’t think I can play with my fingers like this.”

As they take their seats at a table- in the back corner of the tavern of course, Geralt turns to him “How did you know that would work?”

“Oh,” Jaskier grins “I didn’t. But Vesemir told me the people of this town respect nature and the beasts that live in it more than most. I figured they might see the wrong in tampering with wild beasts for profit. Besides- everyone knows publicity matters. A nasty song can truly be the downfall of anyone.”

Geralt smiles fondly, chuckling lightly “I think you win.”

“Hm? Whats that?”

“the competition- you win. I didn’t get a contract. You were right about the forktail.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes “I know you were helping me track it. Even when you’re not giving suggestions, you’re still quite obvious, Geralt.”

Geralt smirks at him, that subtle way he does when they’re in public “No idea what you mean.”

“You protected us, so you win.”

“That’s not how contracts work, bard. I killed no monsters and earned no coin.” He glances around the room, tilting his head as he thinks “But I believe you defeated a drunkard and earned us free drinks.”

“I did,” Jaskier beams in response. “While this contract was surely fun, and no challenge for a dazzling witcher like me- perhaps I’ll leave the beasts to you in the future. But fear not, I can always protect you from drunkards.” He winks, and Geralt shakes his head, though he’s unable to stifle his laughter.

With the way Geralt looks at him, the way his voice turns gentle and soft as he encourages him, Jaskier can’t help but think maybe, just maybe, his dreams were real- maybe the White Wolf could love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the people who have left kudos or kind comments. I haven't been super thrilled with my writing lately, but you all encourage me so much! 
> 
> The next two chapters are finished, so I'll probably post them a few days apart :D no month long wait this time lol! There's some major fluff coming- be warned!


	12. Lingering Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Two updates in one month! Amazing!   
> Seriously though, the next chapter will be up within the week (maybe 5 days from now??) just keep that in mind ;)

With Jaskier’s contract taken care of and as much supplies as they can manage loaded onto Roach, Jaskier and Geralt’s adventure was coming to an end. They headed back up the mountain just in time, as snow began to fall heavier and farther down the path than before. Jaskier found himself wishing they could have spent more time in the town or on the road, enjoying the familiar routine of travel between them. Geralt seemed to share his sentiments, or at least sense them, as once they neared the fortress, he pulled Roach off the path, bringing them to one of the old towers on the outskirts of Kaer Morhen.

Ivy vines hang down, framing their view of the rolling hills and snow-covered mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen. A crisp breeze billows through the room, yet the roof overhead keeps them protected from the spattering of snow that flutters down from above. Jaskier all but gapes at the scenery around him, wide eyes shifting from place to place, trying to take it all in. When he finally looks back at the witcher next to him, Geralt has a warm smile on his face, golden eyes gazing at him with what looks like intent- or _desire_ , Jaskier thinks.

“The view worth the climb?” he teases.

Jaskier chuckles, looking down to hide the blush surely covering his cheeks “Always.” Because it’s never about the scenery. Of course, it’s an added bonus, but he hopes he can convey clearly enough to his dear witcher that there is no trek so far or arduous that it would not be worth it to be with Geralt. If he understands, he doesn’t say anything, busying himself with bringing out food from their packs to eat.

Jaskier’s gaze shifts back to the fields before them. He’s half tempted to take out his notebook and try to sketch it all down when he notices something moving in the distance. When he squints, he can see more clearly there’s a stark white horse grazing not too far from them.

“Look at that, Geralt!” he points out, knowing very well his friend would never pass up the chance to see a horse. “She’s beautiful.”

“He,” Geralt corrects him, his eyes tracking the beast as it grazes lazily, slowly coming closer to them- following a trail of clover it seems.

“How can you tell?”

Geralt smirks with a tilt of his head “I have eyes.”

“Ah- right.” Jaskier huffs, watching the steed closely.

“I didn’t expect to see a wild horse so far up here. He doesn’t seem as skittish as the others- and all alone!” Jaskier laments, throwing his hands up in the direction of the horse.

“Maybe he’s not wild- got away from a traveler or something?” Geralt muses. He watches Jaskier’s enraptured delight carefully.

“What a waste- the gods know a good horse like that would cost a fortune.” He points out. “I always thought white hair was the most lovely.”

Geralt swallows thickly, and when Jaskier finally looks back at him, there’s an intensity in his golden eyes. “I always liked brown.” Somehow Jaskier feels like he doesn’t mean the horse’s hair.

They rest against the remains of a crumbling wall, side by side as they eat. Dried meats, fresh fruit, and some bread they picked up the day before don’t exactly make a feast, but Jaskier finds he couldn’t be happier.

“Did you come here often? Before…” he means before the keep was stormed by angry villagers led by power-thirsty mages- before most of the wolves were killed. But he doesn’t say that. So, he lets it hang in the air to mean whatever Geralt prefers.

“No,” he hums thoughtfully, “It was the mage’s tower- of course they got the best view.”

“Picky lot. Awfully selfish if you ask me.”

“Indeed,” Geralt grins, knowing Jaskier is specifically calling out Yennefer with that statement. “Before our trials, they didn’t let us wander the grounds outside of the keep so freely.”

Jaskier nods, trying not to show the excitement which buzzes through him at the very prospect of Geralt sharing tales of his childhood. It isn’t that they are all fun tales- quite the opposite, but he shares them so rarely and with so few, Jaskier knows he’s special to be privy to even the smallest hints. Geralt trusts him, cares enough that he would share with him, maybe even- Jaskier shakes off the thoughts, doing his best to focus.

“So, the mischief mostly occurred after?” He chides. “I’m sure there must have been mischief.”

Geralt chuckles “I see what you’re trying to do, Lark.”

“And what’s that, my White Wolf?”

“You want me to tell you about the time Eskel and I got caught sneaking grey caps from the elder alchemist’s collection. Is that it?” He leers with a toothy grin.

Jaskier gasps, grabbing ahold of Geralt’s bicep in staged shock “Geralt? And goody-two-shoes Eskel? I don’t believe you! You’ll just have to divulge all the details to convince me.”

Surprisingly, he does. The two stay there far longer than Jaskier had expected, exchanging stories of mischief and mishaps in their younger years- of course, that wasn’t nearly so long ago for Jaskier as it is for Geralt.

If Jaskier slowly inches closer to his witcher, he would claim it’s for heat. Yet, he can’t help himself but let his hand move until the backs of his fingers brush against Geralt’s hand, coming to rest there, touching ever so gently but more than they ever had in the light of day.

It’s just that- well, all of this adventure has been so perfect- perfectly imperfect. Every event proceeding the bard’s kidnapping has been so raw and open compared to normal, his emotions have gotten away from him like a runaway snowball, growing greater and less controllable with each moment that passes. He can’t help but feel like something has shifted significantly between them. And now with his potentially fake memory of that night, Jaskier can’t help but want to test the waters between them- see if Geralt might really love him or at least be open to it.

A feather-light touch of the hands might not seem like a lot, but the way Geralt doesn’t pull away says a lot- the witcher he met in Pasoda would threaten to break his fingers if he did this!

When they finally leave the tower, they’re not far from the entrance of the keep- no longer than a fifteen-minute walk. As their adventure is coming to an end, Jaskier tries not to think about it, but the question is wearing him thin. Was it real? Could it be real? He chews his lip as he thinks it over until he feels like he’s going to burst.

“Geralt,” he blurts out, immediately regretting it. He doesn’t know what he wants to say or how to even begin, and the cautions expression in Geralt’s eyes does little to help him find the words.

“Hm?” the witcher turns to him. He tilts his head to the side, taking in Jaskier’s expression. “You okay?”

“Yea, yea- just a bit cold.”

Before he can say a word, Geralt has pulled off his own cloak and wrapped it tightly around Jaskier. He ties the strands for the bard, not even complaining like he normally would when Jaskier’s more human functions inconvenience him. “You don’t-” he begins.

“Don’t want you freezing to death.” Geralt smirks. Jaskier is about to blush when he adds “Would be a terrible inconvenience to carry you back.”

Jaskier huffs, smacking Geralt’s arm lightly, yet the teasing makes him even more flustered- the combination of playful and sweet is getting to him, driving him insane. It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back, it turns out because now he has to. He has to ask if it was real. It’s just too much to bear any longer, and yet he finds himself at a loss for words.

_Do you love me?_ He wants to say. Oh, but it’s so direct. _I love you_. No, that doesn’t give him an escape if things go bad. Jaskier spends the entirety of the walk trying to formulate the right approach in the same way he would go about writing a ballad.

As they near the outer gates of Kaer Morhen, he knows this is his last chance. If he waits longer, they won’t have enough privacy to discuss this. If he asks about it on the road, he won’t have anywhere to run if Geralt denies him. So, he takes a deep breath and stops.

Geralt keeps walking for a moment before coming to a halt, looking back at him with a questioning raise of his eyebrow.

“I wanted to ask you something.” Jaskier says as smoothly as he can manage, given his pounding heartbeat.

Geralt’s expression is unreadable- more than usual. But he gives Roach a light swat to her hindquarters “Go on, Roach.” She obeys him dutifully, languidly walking into the fortress to find her stable and dinner. When he’s sure she’ll be fine, Geralt turns to Jaskier “What is it?”

“I- well, you see… I’ve been wondering…” He stumbles for the right words, oddly out of his element. If Jaskier were trying to seduce the witcher, he’s sure his nerves would be calm as ever. But this is different. This is _love_. And sweet words and poetry are a whole lot different than putting one’s heart on the line, displayed bare and raw to be cherished or thrown aside.

“Jaskier?” Geralt looks genuinely concerned, but Jaskier watches as his expression turns into something sour and- fearful?

“Yennefer fucked with my head,” Jaskier blurts out, finally, only to see Geralt look even more alarmed “No- wait, I mean-” he takes a deep breath to steady himself. “She didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just that I’m remembering more and more, and well, you see…” he trails off again, but Geralt is quick to fill the silence.

“I’m sure it’s just dreams.”

“No.” Jaskier feels his heart already squeezing in his chest. Nothing has gone wrong yet, but he still feels like he could cry. His next words come out rushed and forced, as if he knows if he stops, he’ll not be able to bring himself to say it again, “I know it’s not- not all of it. There was just one thing I wasn’t sure about. And I need to know, Geralt. I- I don’t think I can handle not knowing anymore. Oh, _gods_ \- you told me you love me. I mean, I think I remembered you telling me you loved me.”

Geralt’s eyes have glued themselves to the ground. He’s unmoving, lips pursed, and for a second Jaskier thinks he must be right- it must have been true. It gives him just an ounce of boldness.

“Did you mean it? Do you?” he breathes the words like a secret, soft enough it feels like they could be swept away by the wind. And for a moment, he thinks Geralt didn’t even hear them. The silence between them seems to stretch on forever, only fast-beating hearts to fill the space. And each second that passes takes some of the bard’s hope with it. Jaskier takes a step toward him, but Geralt steps back. It feels like a stab to the heart, but he keeps pushing. “It’s okay. I-”

He begins to try to comfort the witcher, ease the confession out of him, but Geralt cuts him off. “It’s just dreams, Jaskier.”

Jaskier doesn’t respond, the lump in his throat tightening to a painful point. He nods his head, though Geralt still refuses to look at him- even through a rejection like this.

“You know witchers don’t love.”

“But-”

“You know better than that. Just drop it.” Geralt hisses. His voice is deep and harsh, and it feels awful.

“I just-” Jaskier stops, unsure of what he could say. He just what? Thought he had a chance, thought Geralt could have even a semblance of the feelings Jaskier has for him? He’s been a fool, and he feels like it.

Something shifts in the witcher’s eyes as he glances as Jaskier tentatively, a soft sadness is in his voice when he speaks again, “It’ll be better for both of us.”

He wants to open his mouth and yell and scream that it’s not fair- it’s not right. He knows there’s more. But it’s an excuse. It’s Geralt’s way of comforting him. Because ‘I don’t love _you’_ is so much worse than ‘I don’t love’, and they both know it. So, he accepts it.

“Right.” It’s only a whisper, but it’s all his voice can give without breaking. Jaskier doesn’t look at Geralt as he walks past him, determined to get to the guest chambers before he breaks down.

“Jaskier,” he hears the witcher call behind him. He stops but doesn’t respond. It’s enough, though. Geralt knows he’s listening. “Sorry.”

Jaskier shakes his head- there’s no reason for him to be sorry. It’s not a witcher’s fault if a bard falls in love with them.

\--

In what was once a small armory, tucked away high up on the fortress walls, Geralt sits alone. Occasional gusts of wind blow through open windows and gaps in the stone walls. Even plants and vines have not grown here to fill the space; it feels about as empty as he does.

“You’re not gonna get drunk drinking that slow- can only assume you want to feel miserable for yourself.”

Geralt grunts, turning to see Eskel. Of course, he would know where to find Geralt. This was a spot they often ran off to when they were young- typically in search of a place to goof off or drink where they wouldn’t get caught by the elder witchers. He hasn’t been here in many years, not sure what that says about now.

Eskel sits on the ground next to Geralt, setting a bottle of wine in front of him “In case you need another.”

“How’d you know?” Geralt asks. He tries to sound amused like this was all some joke, but he can’t force it.

Eskel shrugs, “Bard looked upset- Figured you’d fucked up pretty bad.”

Geralt lets out a bitter huff, the closest he can manage to a laugh. “Yea.” He takes a slow, long drink of wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterward before adding “Real bad.”

It’s not that words were yelled or mean things were said, it’s simply that he denied the truth knowing full well it would hurt Jaskier. He knew he could admit it, he could say he loved him, and the bard would be happy with that- he seemed hopeful for that answer, at least. But it isn’t that simple. It might’ve made Jaskier happy in the moment, but Geralt doubted he could be what Jaskier wanted in the long run.

_He was just trying to protect him;_ It shouldn’t hurt so much.

“Can’t be worse than any of the other shit you’ve pulled.” Eskel says, nudging Geralt’s boot with his own. It isn’t very comforting, but he knows Eskel is trying his best. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Eskel sighs, “Too bad. What happened?”

Geralt rubs his face with his hands “Fuck. He asked me if I loved him, and I told him witchers can’t love.” Eskel is silent- not uncomfortably so, but pensive, so Geralt continues “I told him I loved him when I thought he was dying. I didn’t think he was going to make it, and I didn’t think he’d remember if he did. And he didn’t! Not until Yennefer fuckin’ unlocked his memories or something. _Dammit_. I should’ve just explained myself, but when he asked if I meant it, I told him he was just imagining it.” Geralt throws his hands up- what was he supposed to do? He panicked and even if he explained himself, he didn’t think Jaskier would just accept that and drop it. No. Things would change between them, and he couldn’t risk ruining what they have.

When he finally looks over at Eskel, the other witcher is gazing at him with equal parts sympathy and astonishment, “Geralt, what the fuck?”

“I know.”

“You fucked up so bad.”

“I know! I could fuckin’ see his heart being crushed, but I couldn’t say anything else.”

He felt his own heart being crushed in that moment, too. Maybe he wanted Jaskier to fight him over it, yell at him and tell him he’s a liar. Or maybe he wanted Jaskier to be mad or disgusted by the confession. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to see his best friend look so heartbroken over him when Geralt was denying them both what they really wanted.

He’ll give it some time; that heartbreak will turn to bitterness. Jaskier will be angry, but he’ll find love elsewhere. Maybe he’ll leave him for a summer at Oxenfurt, romancing all the lovely men and women he finds along the way. Then, when they meet up again in fall, he will know Geralt is not what he wants anymore.

Eskel snatches the unopened wine bottle, twisting the cork off aggressively and takes a drink for himself. “You gotta make it up to him.”

“Maybe I should let it be.” He says quietly “We’re witchers, Eskel. What can we really give anyone they can’t find better in someone else?”

“Well…” Eskel grins at him stupidly, eyebrows wiggling suggestively. Despite the pain he feels, it makes Geralt smirk a little.

“Shut up.” Geralt groans, “I’m serious. What is he gonna get out of this? We live to fight and die fighting. That’s the way it is.”

Eskel scoffs “You’re such a defeatist, Wolf. Not many people want us- almost no one, actually. You should be thankful someone does. Jaskier’s lived by your side for long enough to know what he’s getting himself into. Clearly, he thinks you’re worth trudging around the continent for- has for a long time now. You want to die alone, go ahead, but I don’t think you get to make decisions for the bard over if he should want your sorry, old ass or not.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

Eskel gives him a toothy grin full of mischief, “What? You need Papa Vesemir to give you the birds and the bees talk again?”

“Fuck you,” Geralt says, and they both laugh as he shoves Eskel. He has to steady himself to keep from falling, but when Eskel settles again, he bumps Geralt’s shoulder with his own. Somehow, Geralt feels lighter, the awful weight that was gnawing at him at least subdued, replaced with a glimmer of hope “What should I do?”

“Could talk about it.”

“ _Not_ an option,” Geralt hisses.

Eskel chuckles, that familiar deep sound, and Geralt finds himself joining in, realizing the ridiculousness of his statement. Of course, they’ll have to talk about it eventually, but words, specifically words expressing vulnerable emotions, aren’t his forte. Perhaps he could do something for the bard instead, a gesture or gift…

“’M sure you’ll think of something,” Eskel says, taking another gulp of wine.

It’s still late in the night when he does think of something, having brainstormed over their drinks. Most his ideas were bad- bad enough for Eskel to laugh at him, but he settled on one after all. When Geralt rushes to his room to gather his supplies, he’s met with an empty bed. Walking past the guest chambers, he can faintly hear the soft sounds of Jaskier’s breathing. He pushes down the pained feeling that threatens to overflow at the realization of how deeply he’s pushed Jaskier away. But, maybe he can make up for it…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried not to leave it on TOO much of a cliffhanger :P 
> 
> I hope Geralt's perspective was clear enough. I don't really think he's stupid or blind to Jaskier's affections, but I think a lot of his more illogical or destructive behavior comes from self deprecation- thinking he's not good enough or he'll just mess things up, etc. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to everyone who left a kudos or kind comment. You're all amazing! <3


	13. Try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to give a special thank you to everyone yelling in the comments last week about their heartbreak and how upset they were at Geralt ;) you all made my week. Please take this chapter as an apology.

Jaskier awakes almost startled to find himself alone in the guest bedroom that was originally intended to be his own. He really tried not to make a big deal out of Geralt’s answer the night before, but it was no help that everyone around them seemed to work him up- Eskel, Lambert, _Yennefer_. Fuck, Yennefer was the worst. She knew what was in Geralt’s mind, and she still sent Jaskier after him. Just when he thought he could trust her…

All he could do was run to his room after Geralt’s devastating denial. He was polite about it, not even denying Jaskier outright, as if he was concerned about hurting his feelings. That just made it hurt more though. It shouldn’t be a big deal; he never said he disliked Jaskier- just, that he would never love him.

Jaskier tried to hold back his tears, he really did. He worried he would be overheard by the witcher’s sensitive ears or that the salty aroma would be caught wafting under the door. It was that damn cloak that made him give in; still surrounded by the smell of the witcher, the fond memories in his mind, he tried to distract himself, sing a song to keep his mind off it. But it wasn't long before his voice cracked until only choked off sobs could come out.

He figured it was for the best, better to let his heart get ripped out now and move on in life. After all, Geralt will always be his friend. Only, here in the confinement of the fortress, there was nowhere to let off his steam- no plucky maidens or doe eyed young men to chase after, and more importantly, no bartenders that won’t ask questions when he tries to drown his sorrows in alcohol. Besides, he knows better than that. He’d tried all those methods to move on when Geralt got together with Yennefer. He might just be doomed to love the witcher regardless of his feelings forever.

Being here at Kaer Morhen, he half expects Geralt to run for the hills. He knows he went too far, and whenever Geralt feels unsure or uncomfortable with something like this, he just disappears. It didn’t happen between them often, but after the ball at Cintra he disappeared from Jaskier without so much as a goodbye. The bard thought he was mad, but later Geralt apologized- Jaskier realized he craved returning to the familiarity of the Path when he felt out of control, though he certainly didn’t word it that way.

It’s only a matter of time before he either runs from Kaer Morhen or ejects Jaskier himself. A few months will pass, and they’ll meet up again like nothing happened.

_Isn’t that a bitter thought?_

Jaskier realizes he needs a distraction. Perhaps he will lock himself in the library today and call it studying just to give him some space as he sorts out his thoughts. The sun is already high in the sky by the time he makes it out of bed and slinks down to the kitchen.

He finds the main hall empty aside from Lambert tinkering with his weapons. The witcher doesn’t even notice him when he slips by or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

With a measly breakfast in hand, he heads to the library. He ends up restringing his lute; it’s calming and centering, and it doesn’t require him to fixate on his emotions like playing it would.

It’s almost afternoon when Eskel enters the library. He smells of horse and wilderness and leather. “Need you to head down to the stables. Erm, Roach is acting out and Geralt’s not around.” He mumbles, scratching at the scars across his face.

That peaks Jaskier’s attention “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” he asks, getting to his feet.

Eskel shakes his head “Nah, but she likes you more than us. Figure she might be antsy without her people around. Maybe she just wants you to sing her a song,” he smirks- a little too much for that flimsy joke, but Jaskier doesn’t push it.

“Hm,” Jaskier hums. He hadn’t really considered himself Roach’s person, but then again, she does see him more than the other witchers “Alright. I can’t say no to an eager fan, after all.”

He hurries down the stone stairs, a little more worry in his gut than he’d like to let on. When he enters the stables, he sees Roach first. She smells- well, she smells like she’s been working up quite a sweat, like when Geralt pushes her on long journeys. He can see she’s been groomed for the day, and nothing about her seems off. But next to her stands a brilliant white horse. Jaskier has never seen it here before; his eyes wander to check the other horses there, Scorpion, Eskel’s black stallion stands tallest next to Lambert’s horse and Vesemir’s grey dapple. Then, who’s horse is this?

Jaskier wanders closer. Next to Roach, the white stallion, or gelding more likely, is surprisingly only an inch or two taller than her. His coat is newly cleaned, practically shimmering in the sunlight. Only the tip of his nose and his hooves are black, giving him a softer appearance. In the back of his mind, Jaskier register’s this is oddly similar to the steed him and Geralt had seen on their latest outing. _But it couldn’t be_.

“Well, hello there,” Jaskier says gently, almost apprehensively as he approaches the white horse. He reaches out his hand gently, and the horse pushes his nose into Jaskier’s palm rather quickly. It almost makes him jolt to find this mystery horse is so friendly. Jaskier runs his other hand over the beast’s neck, watching him closely for any negative reactions. Witcher’s horses are well trained, but they aren’t exactly well known for being overly friendly to strangers. But, is this a witcher’s horse? “What’s your name, boy?” Jaskier asks softly.

He swears he can almost smell Geralt on the horse, but then again, maybe he just associates Geralt with the smell of horses. Jaskier tries to push the thought out of his mind, but that quickly becomes impossible when he hears the bastard’s voice behind him. “Whatever you want it to be.”

Jaskier turns his head to look at him but doesn’t take his hands off the horse. “W-what?”

The witcher approaches but doesn’t stand as close as he normally would. He’s still in his armor, and Jaskier can only assume he had left Kaer Morhen recently. He can see how tense he is, shoulders stiff and fists balled tight, fingers fidgeting ever so slightly. Geralt swallows thickly before responding “His name- it’s whatever you want. He’s yours.”

Jaskier blinks at him several times, for once, feeling like he’s at a loss for words. “I- what?” he reiterates.

Geralt huffs, whether out of amusement or frustration, Jaskier isn’t entirely sure. “It’s not good for a domesticated horse to be roaming these parts,” he explains, rubbing his foot in the dirt idily “Figured I shouldn’t leave him there, and you- you seemed to like him. I _thought_ you’d like him.”

Jaskier’s hands still in the horse’s mane. He almost forgets how to move until the stallion pushes against him, disappointed with the lack of attention. Jaskier’s eyes flicker between the horse and Geralt “I- I do! But you’re going to have to be a little bit more clear about this, Geralt. Is this a _gift_? Or are you telling me you want me to leave?”

“Fuck, no.” he replies quickly, hands outstretched as if to stop Jaskier. “I mean- yes, it’s a gift. But no, I don’t want you to leave.” 

Jaskier smiles, the gesture warms his heart, really. But part of him is terrified this is some kind of act of pity. “Thank you,” he says softly. “But, what is this about, exactly?”

Geralt looks at him with desperation in his eyes. He runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the pieces until some fall out of the already messy way he’s pulled the top layer back. “I don’t know how to do this, Jask.”

Jaskier licks his lips, his tongue sticking out for just a moment as he thinks, but no words can express how much he wants, how much he _needs_ to hear something, anything, even if it’s just a declaration of lasting friendship, any affirmation that Geralt cares for him- because he simply can’t let himself believe what he thinks the witcher is trying to do. “Geralt, _please_. Try.” He breathes.

Geralt’s hands move from his hair to rubbing his face as he speaks like he could hide from Jaskier that way “Fuck, you weren’t imagining it, Jaskier. I lied. I’m sorry. I thought it was for the best. I don’t know how to do this- I don’t know how to- to- love you the way you deserve… the way I want to.”

The words come out quiet and slow, but Jaskier feels like he’s never heard anything so loud in his life. He can feel the blood rush to his face and tears fill his eyes, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He covers his mouth with his hand to stop whatever flow of unconscious ideas he has from spilling from his mouth. All of the sudden his heart is so full and warm- no, _hot_ , and it hurts, too, to see the pain Geralt has put himself through- the doubts in his mind that he could be enough for Jaskier.

Jaskier takes a shaky breath, and steps closer to the witcher- _his witcher_ , closing the space between them. Even then, Geralt doesn’t dare look at him, his eyes glued to the ground, one hand still rubbing his face like that’ll help. Jaskier reaches up, gently taking ahold of Geralt’s wrist to remove his hand from his face. He watches his gold eyes carefully, so big and _scared_. Later, when he has coherent thoughts again, Jaskier will relish in the fact that he was the only human to strike fear into the heart of the great White Wolf.

Now, though, all he can focus on is how close they are. He reaches up, gently cupping Geralt’s face, savoring the feeling of his rough stubble and soft skin under his fingers in a way he’s never allowed himself before. Jaskier only speaks when the wolf’s gaze finds him, no matter how apprehensive it may be. “I have loved you for all these years not for what you could be but for who you are- your perfections and imperfections, all your oddities. I love all of you, Geralt. I’m not going to stop that. You don’t need to know how to do this. The truth is, you’ve already loved me better than anyone I’ve ever known. Love is a decision, not a series of grand gestures. you never gave up on me, and that’s enough. I won’t give up on you, either.”

Geralt’s expression shifts under his touch almost as though Jaskier’s words startle him; he stares at him with nearly black eyes, and Jaskier can hear both his heart and breath increasing in speed- granted, his own heart is probably pounding like a bunny rabbit’s, but he can’t seem to focus on anything but Geralt.

Jaskier leans in slowly to give the witcher time to run if he needs. He presses their lips together gently. It’s slow and oddly reverent, but when he pulls back, he feels Geralt’s breath hitch. Hesitation fill his movements as if he were fighting with fear and desire. Jaskier presses himself closer, lips brushing his as he speaks “Let me love you.”

The next thing he knows, Geralt’s hand is tangled in his hair and one thick arm is squeezing his waist, pulling him against the witcher. Their lips meet forcefully, but it’s more than welcome. He feels almost as if he’s being devoured, Geralt’s touch so desperate, so needy, and Jaskier is swept away by it, just as desperate in return. The witcher backs him up, pressing him against the stable wall, never once breaking their kiss.

Jaskier hears himself release a needy whine when Geralt pulls away. Though, he can’t deny his need to breathe as both of them gasp for air. It’s a mercy that Geralt presses his forehead against Jaskier’s because the bard doesn’t think he could stand having less touch than this. Geralt’s hands come up to cup Jaskier’s face, calloused thumbs gently brushing away tears Jaskier hadn’t realized he spilled while speaking.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you, too, so much.” Jaskier replies. He watches in astonishment as the Geralt grins at him with softest smile he’s ever seen. It very nearly melts his heart right then and there, but it only gets worse- Geralt leans toward him again, but this time his approach is vastly different; his lips barely ghost over Jaskier’s, tickling and tingling. Agonizingly slowly, he kisses him again, soft and slow.

This time, when they part, Jaskier is the first to speak “Maybe, I could worry about naming the horse later.”

Geralt smiles at him with a wolfish grin, tugging him by the hand toward the fortress with hurried steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I do have a lot more planned with this fic; there's plot points to tie up and relationship stuff. However, I'm defending my thesis this month, directly proceeded by beginning classes again as a doctoral student (!!!!!!). So, it may be a little while until I can update again. Or who knows, I might use the next chapter as a form of procrastination.
> 
> Anyways, hmu on tumblr @cats-obsessions if you wanna scream about geraskier together or any other nonsense :)


	14. Ravens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I am back!!! Since the last update, I graduate AND started school again. It has been a crazy few months, so I appreciate everyone's patience! I promise this fic isn't abandoned! :D the next few chapters are well on their way actually. I was writing this chapter and realized it got quite long even though I had 3 more scenes to add, so I decided to split it up so I could post an update sooner than later! So, have some fluff!

In the golden light of morning, he awakes to find himself entangled; a haphazard mess of bedsheets and Jaskeir trap him in his place, their limbs intertwined, the bard sprawled across him. There is no place Geralt would rather be.

And yet, there’s a peculiarity to it.

Of all the bed partners he’s had over the years- from brave villagers and curious one-night stands or paid company to the rare emotional connection he found in one like Yennefer, he had never awoken like this. Sharing a bed is a sign of trust, for the Witcher at least, but the way Jaskier clings to him, snoring softly, is unabashed affection- a need to be close to each other. It’s as if the bard finds genuine comfort and safety in Geralt’s embrace. While logically he knows that is the case, his doubtful mind finds it impossible to understand. _But he wants to_. Perhaps in time, he could come to understand these feelings he so carefully barred himself from having decades ago.

Jaskier groans, nuzzling his face into Geralt’s neck. After a long moment, he pulls away, looking up at Geralt “Good morning.”

Geralt meets his eyes tentatively, almost carefully, still unsure how to handle this new freedom in their relationship. The soft and lazy smile Jaskier gives him is infectious though, and he finds himself smirking “Morning.”

Jaskier extracts himself from Geralt, rolling onto his back to yawn and stretch. Geralt watches intently, eyes tracing his exposed skin and shifting muscles.

Jaskier catches his gaze with a haughty smirk, “Enjoying the view, witcher?”

“I can put up with it.” He chides. The truth is, he doesn’t believe he could live without it now.

Jaskier huffs, “Would it kill you to give an honest compliment?”

Geralt gives him a wolfish grin before moving closer to lean over him and finding Jaskier’s neck with his lips. The bard tilts his head up, giving Geralt more access to that vulnerable spot. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against his neck before scraping the sharp points of his canines against the delicate skin there.

“ _Oh_ ,” jaskier breathes. “You are quite sweet when you try, darling. And distracting.”

Geralt pulls back to look in Jaskier’s eyes. His hair is a mess from sleeping on it, and his cheeks are dusted in pink. “Have somewhere you need to be, bard?” Geralt asks, raising his eyebrow playfully.

“Well,” Jaskier trails off, pretending to ponder the question far too dramatically as he taps his fingers on his chin, eyes glancing to the side. “I really ought to name my horse, don’t you think?” he says, moving as if he were about to get out of bed.

“You can do that here.” Geralt says, a small growl in his voice as he pounces on the bard. Jaskier grins when Geralt pushes him back down to the mattress with a fierce kiss. He trails kisses from his lips down to his neck again where Geralt breathes in his scent deeply- he smells like home, a combination of them both, underlaid with _contentment_.

The bard continues to talk as the witcher makes his way down, pressing kisses and nipping at the jut of his collarbone, then his chest “I was thinking,” Jaskier says, yet the wavering in his voice give away how affected he really is, “Pegasus.”

Mid-kiss, he can’t help the snort that escapes him. Geralt presses his forehead to Jaskier’s chest as his laughter shakes his shoulders, “That’s _stupid_.”

Jaskier sputters, though giggles escape him as he speaks “It is not! Your horse is named Roach, Geralt. Like the insect!”

“No.” Geralt responds, voice dropping, a touch more serious than he should be, “She’s Roach, like the fish.”

Jaskier stares at him for a beat before the bard erupts in laughter “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend your horse named after a fish. Surely Pegasus, a horse named after a mythical horse, is far too ridiculous.”

Geralt huffs with a smirk, lowering his head to rest on Jaskier’s hirsute chest. The bard reaches down, running his fingers gently through his white locks, sending a pleasant tingling sensation down his spine. So, when he speaks, his voice is far too relaxed for any teasing menace to show “Whatever, your horse. Name it whatever dumb thing you want.” He murmurs.

“Speaking of doing whatever we want- anything you would like to do today, love?” Jaskier asks casually, the pet name rolling off his tongue weightless as a feather. Yet, Geralt feels it in his chest, in his stomach- that fluttering warmth of affection and a morning spent laughing in bed with _his_ _lover_.

It makes him want to grin as brightly as the bard, so he hides his face in Jaskier’s shoulder instead, nipping at him lightly before responding “you.”

*************

Old books fill the room with a distinct musty smell, though not unwelcome; it reminds her of countless hours spent studying, at first in Aretuza, then of her own accord in an extensive quest for knowledge and power. Yennefer runs her fingers over the worn and broken spines of several books. Dust gathers on the pads of her fingertips where they brush against the ancient tomes.

Yennefer glances down, grimacing at the dirt, “You really should dust in here more often.”

A light, airy laugh fills the room “I should get a spell for that,” Triss grins “Are you looking for something in particular?”

Yennefer’s search has brought her many places- Looking at dusty tomes with Istridd had gotten her nowhere beyond her initial findings and surmounting frustration. Some time spent studying on her own led her to need the assistance of another mage. Coming to Triss was the natural conclusion; she is one of the few sorceresses she truly trusts implicitly without judgement or quarrel, and she readily welcomed Yennefer into her lodgings. The laboratory is quaint. At first glance, it looks more like a cottage than the experimental dungeon most king’s advisors are set up in. It has little of the luxury Yennefer was once accustomed to, but Triss has filled the space with plants and books, the odd painting or drawing she found in marketplaces, giving life to the dull backdrop of winter.

For all intents and purposes, Yennefer could have given the witcher his information and left. She knows the approximate location of Cyprian at this point, but she would be foolish to do that. He is an ancient and powerful sorcerer. The information within his laboratories are valuable enough to warrant her interest; as an expert on mutation, he knows best how to change and alter the body- give power to where there once was weakness and life to where there once was death.

It is her reason for pursuing him personally, for she knows Geralt, and she knows his reckless nature in the face of a threat to his- well, to the ones he loves, she supposes. She heard him say it himself when she looked inside the bard’s mind. It was the only time she has heard the words uttered from him. Regardless, he’ll surely get himself killed storming Cyprian’s labs. At best, his savior complex won’t be his demise and only the decades, if not centuries, of knowledge acquired by the sorcerer will perish. At worst, the caves will become the final resting place for the White Wolf and his idiot bard, and all her hard work will go to waste.

“Nothing in particular. I was simply perusing your collection.” 

“Would you like some tea? I made the blend myself, including a special ingredient.” Triss says

“Please tell me it’s not something daft like ‘ _love’_ ,” Yennefer deadpans, but Triss laughs all the same.

She hands Yennefer a cup; their fingers brushing as Yennefer takes it. “Verbena petals have many health benefits but its ability to help one relax is perhaps the most powerful.” The sweet smell of tea wafts up from the cup, mixing with the delicate purple petals that float atop amber liquid. It’s almost as warm as Triss’ smile, “Why don’t you take a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I don’t need to relax,” Yennefer snaps before catching herself. Rather, it is that she takes great care to guard herself carefully, yet the other sorceress has easily seen through her stoic façade to the restlessness that lies below. It’s an unnerving feeling, really, to be seen. “Thank you for the tea, but I need to attend to this spell if I am to have any success, and-”

“Geralt and ‘his bard’s’ safety depend on your spell. Yes, I know. But I also know that potion needs to brew. You can keep an eye on it while we talk.”

“I really shouldn't,” Yennefer replies, walking to the potions table. She runs her fingertip over the coils of glass tubing and pretends to inspect the vials. Two eyes of a raven, a scrap from Cyprian’s work, a dozen nostrix leaves, and a drop of her own blood- it all works together with the help of an enchantment. But Triss is right. There is nothing that she can do but wait.

She hears Triss sigh behind her “You mentioned ‘ _that bastard_ ’ when you got here if I’m remembering correctly. Which one is it this time?”

“Istridd.” She responds quickly. “Cyprian. Geralt. All of them, really.”

Triss remains quiet long enough for Yennefer’s mind to go right to the place she was avoiding.

“Geralt is predictable. He never changes- not for me, anyways. I see why now. But it was foolish of me to assume Istridd could change. Men like him treat women as commodities to be altered and changed to fit their whims. He expects me to be subservient for the likes of him? Like it was wrong to chase what _I_ wanted...” She huffs with a bitter laugh, “I was right to think a lifetime with him would be slow suicide.” 

Everywhere she turns feels like another dead end, another place to find someone who doesn’t care about her- not the way she desires. It builds inside her, pressing against the faint lines of cracks until eventually, she feels like she will burst and shatter.

“You deserve better than that,” Triss says, soft as if she was afraid to say the words. “You deserve to be accepted exactly as you are- not to be told to change or told that you cannot change. Just accepted.”

Yennefer grimaces. She wants to laugh at the improbability of the statement, but something in her chest grows like a knot, a conglomeration of emotions: anger, frustration, solace, and an alarming comfort.

She opens her mouth to speak, though she knows not what to say. Her instinct tells her to mock Triss’ naivety, but she’s not sure she can bring herself to do so. The rare blessing from the gods graces her though, and the potion behind her begins to bubble. She spins to face it, eager to move on, and watches as green liquid froths, shifting to a shimmering blue and then to black. The vial is filled with a thick darkness, dim smoke lifting from it.

“I must act fast,” Yennefer says, switching off the burner and grasping the vial. Post-transformation, it is cold to the touch. The liquid scarcely moves as she steps to her position in the center of the room, marked by a circle of candles. Triss steps back, facing her. The other sorceress outstretches her hands, palms facing Yennefer to assist her in casting the spell.

Triss’ green eyes catch Yennefer’s, and with a nod, they begin to recite the enchantment. As chaos builds in the air around them, Yennefer raises the vial above her head and pours it out. The liquid dissipates to black smoke, engulfing her until she can see nothing but darkness.

When she opens her eyes, she is bombarded by a bright light of the scorching rays of the sun shining over mountain tops. She views the fields rushing below her, trees passing her by as she looks through the eyes of a raven. The colors are distorted, more vibrant and bright than before, but she can see and hear more acutely like this.

The beast caws loudly, announcing itself to the world around it. On onyx wings, it soars through the air of the mountainside skirting Dol Blathanna- right through Cyprian’s wards. It was her only choice to take ahold of a creature to investigate the sorcerer’s stronghold more closely, for only a being of flesh and blood can pass his barriers.

Like this, it’s easy to spot the mirage covering the entrance to the cave. Such illusions do not trick birds which see through light waves humans do not. Swooping inside the hollow opening, the bird makes its way through the weaving passages of the cavern. Cold water drips from stalagmites hanging down from the roof of the cave where tunnels twist every which way. The raven has a sense of where to go- a natural instinct that leads it to where there is life rather than dead ends.

Yennefer knows they are getting close when she spots remnants of human interference. At first, there are a few crates and abandoned heaps of used supplies strewn across the cave floors, disregarded as an afterthought. However, as the bird reaches deeper and deeper into the lair, the true horror of the sorcerer’s deeds begin to unravel. Creatures she has never seen before, horrible conglomerations of beasts cross-mutated scurry through the cave, up the walls and through openings in the ground. Some look as though they are in pain and others lie dead- failed experiments or hunted by superior predators, surely.

Of course, that could not be all of it. The raven turns a corner and Yennefer sees them- human experiments strewn about and abandoned, just as Eskel and Geralt had described. They exhibit all the signs of failed witcher trials. Cyprian did not even bother to bury them, and some lay on examination tables still. The weight of the situation settles on her, a sinking feeling in her chest.

The bird flies deeper into the laboratory still until she spots two living figures. On the edge of the alcove, she commands the raven to sit so she can observe. Below, she spots what must be Cyprian. He’s draped in darkness and she can hardly see anything of him but his pale hands. Yet, she can feel the chaos radiating from him. Ancient tomes and a plethora of magical devices lay about on makeshift tables and laboratory equipment he surely portaled in. There are crates labeled with only the rarest ingredients and a seemingly endless array of vials glowing of nearly every color with sickly materials- mutagens, likely.

Next to Cyprian, Yennefer spots a man- not entirely human it seems. His eyes glimmer with flashes of light from the fire, much like Geralt’s cat eyes do in the dark- an unnerving trait she never fully adjusted to seeing when she woke next to him in the night. Could this man be a witcher, then? He stands stock still, muscles stiff with the effort of it, and no emotion seems to flash across his face as if he were turned to stone.

“Egret, check on our guests and bring them food. We must ensure we get as many successful mutations as possible.” Cyprian says with a wave of his hand. Yennefer watches in cold fascination as the other- the Witcher- walks mechanically. His eyes glow red and she can sense the magic washing over him. A spell of control, then. Something about it feels familiar.

“Ah, yes- we are alone then.” She hears him say, though she isn’t sure to whom it is directed.

From behind the raven, Yennefer hears scuttling followed by the horrible screeching of a creature. It lunges toward the bird, thankfully a moment too late to catch its prey as the bird flutters away just in time.

In the bird’s panic, her control over it wavers. She is left to watch its erratic movements as it swoops down, away from the predator and directly toward the sorcerer. She tries to redirect it, influence it to pass over the man just close enough to get a look without raising suspicion, for surely he will notice a raven does not belong in a cave, but her attempts are thwarted. In a split second, Cyprian reaches out with frail looking hands and catches the bird firmly in his grip. The raven struggles on instinct, but its wings are trapped against its body, making it immobile. Slowly, he turns the creature to face him. Yennefer feels a shiver run down her spine as pale eyes bore into hers, searching, _digging_. It feels as though he can see right through the raven to her. But that’s impossible- it should be impossible.

Yet, he sneers, “ _Sorceress_.” Yellowed and crooked teeth show when he grimaces, and this close, she can see the dullness of his skin more clearly- the price to pay for his magic perhaps. “Your disillusions will be your downfall, witch. Walk away while you can.”

The breath is knocked out of her lungs, and Yennefer finds herself crashing to the floor. She gasps for air, desperate to find release in oxygen to dull the ringing in her head. She’s vaguely aware she’s back in the cabin with Triss’ hands on her shoulders holding her up.

“Yennefer- Yen, can you hear me?”

“Fuck,” she gasps, “Fuck. Yes, yes- I’m here.”

“What happened?” Triss asks, and Yennefer can detect the hint of panic remaining in her voice.

“I- he saw me.”

“Cyprian?”

“Yes, he saw through my magic. He’s more powerful than I had expected…” she murmurs, trying to stand on wobbly feet. The spell itself took a great deal of her power to project across such a far distance, but when Cyprian deflected her magic, it required a lot from her to protect herself. Triss supports most of her weight, leading Yennefer to sit on the closest chair. “There were experiments there.”

“Yen, just take a minute to breathe.”

That is the last thing she feels she can do as her mind works erratically, examining what she witnessed, conjuring up consequences and possibilities, “He was controlling a witcher.”

Triss is silent, her eyes wide as she processes the statement, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I could sense the magic over their mind.”

“Momentarily sure, but-”

“I’ve seen it before. Idarran of Ulivo designed the idr to react to his magic and his magic alone. Who’s to say the same cannot be done with witchers?” How could she ever forget that encounter all those years ago- the very one that lead her to leave her position at court. Yes, she’s seen the power of controlled, predatory mutations; to imagine the power one could wield by controlling witchers, though- “I must warn Geralt.”

“Sit,” Triss says. She doesn’t push, but she places her hands on Yennefer’s shoulders. “You’re weak like this. You need to rest. You will not be of any help to them in your state. Besides, they’re safe at Kaer Morhen. You need to ensure your safety too.”

Yennefer doesn’t respond, her mind refusing to slow. Triss, however, retrieves a cup of water and a warm blanket. She wraps it around Yennefer’s shoulders carefully and tucks a stray strand of raven hair behind her ear. The soft touches ground Yennefer.

When she speaks, there’s a softness in her eyes and pink blooming on her freckled cheeks, “Some of us would miss you if you did something foolish and got yourself killed. Besides, if you portal to Kaer Morhen now, you’ll be stranded there until you recover.”

Yennefer makes a noise of disgust, scrunching her nose at the idea- being trapped in a castle of witchers while her ex follows that bard around like a lost puppy and her only other options for company are a toddler with bombs, a goat herder, and an ancient fencing instructor. “I’m not sure I ever would recover from _that_ ,” she shudders, and when Triss laughs, that delightful noise filling the room, she can’t help but smile. “I don’t want to burden you by staying here, though. I can find my own lodgings.”

“No, no. You shouldn’t have to be alone.”

“I don’t need-” she begins, only to be cut off by Triss.

Her voice is kind but not weak; there’s a definitiveness behind her statement as she knows Yennefer’s tendency to protest accepting kindness, “I care about you, Yen.”

Yennefer feels the telltale heat of a blush covering her cheeks, dusting them in red _as if she were an inexperienced girl_ _again_ she realizes with embarrassment. For some, that may be very well and fine, but she prides herself on _not_ allowing herself to be flustered or undone by others. And yet, such gentle words strike her so fiercely.

 _Oh_.

************

The dining hall is empty but for the sound of Eskel writing in a book and Lambert sharpening knives. He ran out of swords to sharpen long ago and moved onto the ornamental ones on the walls, then Eskel’s, then the kitchen knives all in a flimsy attempt to seem busy. Eskel is no better. He’s been writing over the same spot in his journal for some time now, the ink gathering and smudging together. They just want to pretend they have a reason to loiter in the dining hall other than to be nosy.

“So…” Lambert hums, listening to the way his voice echoes in the empty room.

“Yup.” Eskel responds, pursing his lips.

Finally, the large wooden doors leading outside creek open, metal hinges screaming as they do- ah, maybe he should oil those. It would give him something to do.

“Where is everybody?” Vesemir asks as he trods in, turning to the wolves, “Training was supposed to start two hours ago. You both know that. And where’s Geralt?”

“I’m sure he’s… _busy_ ,” Eskel supplies. Lambert cackles in the background.

Vesemir raises a bushy eyebrow at them. A myriad of emotions flash across his face until he settles on defeat, far too used to their antics by now. “Do I even want to know?” he sighs.

Eskel and Lambert both look at each other, the silent decision of who should explain it. Eskel figures Lambert will just be an arse about it, so he speaks up, “He um, he had an argument with the bard. Tried to make up for it. But I mean, we don’t know if everything went according to plan.”

“What?” Lambert scoffs, “You think pretty boy’s shacked up drinking away his sorrows?”

Eskel quirks an eyebrow at him with a tilt of his head.

“Okay, Yea fair enough. The martyr probably would.”

“Should we check on him?” Eskel wonders, more to himself than Lambert because the gods know the man isn’t going to be helpful.

“No- no! Gross, no. No one wants to see that.” He fusses.

“Absolutely not.” Vesemir agrees.

“Besides, you’d probably hear it before you saw it,” Eskel supplies, making Lambert cringe.

“Stop. Please stop. I don’t want to think about it.”

“What? You getting lonely, Lambert?” Eskel teases, leering at him, “Wish you had a certain someone to warm your bed all winter?”

“What? No!” the younger Witcher spats, his face all the way up to his ears quickly turning red “I get laid plenty on the Path if that’s what you’re implying.”

 _“I’m sure you do_.”

“What is that supposed to mean?!”

Vesemir sighs loudly, looking between the two of them, though he’s obviously stifling a smile “When you two are done gossiping, come out for some training. We’ll start without Geralt.”

“Sorry, of course, Vesemir.” Eskel responds politely. Lambert, however, rolls his eyes like a petulant child once Vesemir turns his back.

“You keep doing that and your eyes are going to roll right out of your head, Lambert.” Vesemir hums.

“What?! You weren’t even looking at me!”

The old man snickers as he slips out the front door, and Eskel does all he can to restrain his own laughter, earning him a vicious glare from Lambert.

\------

Geralt is greeted with knowing smiles from his brothers when he finally makes his way onto the training grounds, and Lambert constantly looks like he’s about to burst with some inappropriate joke, but as the week passes, overall, not a lot changes- not drastically, anyways.

Jaskier nudges his leg under the table at meals, and their fingers brush whenever they pass each other in the halls, and touches in front of the others linger longer than before. It all feels nearly overwhelming, yet a subtle part of Geralt wonders if it’s not enough. Surely, the others know they’re sleeping together, but do they realize the extent of their relationship? Is he supposed to tell them? What is he supposed to _call_ Jaskier now?

In the private moments, quiet spaces they carve out for themselves, intimacy comes easier: hushed words of adoration, belated confessions, kisses and embraces, though not without teasing banter- it’s enough to make his head swim. Yet, there, he doesn’t have to worry about labels; they’re still the friends they’ve always been but so much more all at once. The idea that someone might see them and not understand the reality of the emotions involved in their coupling is… upsetting somehow.

Geralt groans, running his hand over his face. He’s been staring at the same page of his book, sprawled out, laying on a couch in the library for ages now as he contemplates what a relationship _means_ in the grand scheme of things. And more often fretting he isn’t doing things right already.

As if the bard could read his mind, Geralt hears the door to the library swing open, followed by the soft padding of feet approaching him.

“Hello, my White Wolf.” Jaskier says. He climbs onto the couch, flopping on top of Geralt; he wiggles around until he’s securely tucked against the witcher’s side with Geralt's arm wrapped around him. The warmth of affection does well to quell his fears. At least the bard wasn’t done with him yet.

Geralt grins, eyeing Jaskier suspiciously, “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing? What does it look like? I’m cuddling with you.”

Geralt huffs in amusement “Yes, but why? What do you want?”

“You,” Jaskier responds, nuzzling his neck, breathing in his scent. It’s a habit Geralt noticed he’s picked up recently after his trials. It’s amusing to see some of the witcher instincts come up in Jaskier’s behavior. He’s less restrained than trained witchers and has no reservations about displaying them.

Geralt chuckles “You can’t wait until we’re somewhere more private?”

“What?”

“Someone’s going to hear us in here.”

“No- no, I didn’t mean sexually- I mean, I do want you that way, too, but that’s not why I’m doing this.” Jaskier props himself up so he can look Geralt in the eyes. “Don’t you ever cuddle just to cuddle? I know we haven’t exactly been restrained these past few days, and well there _is_ a lot of time to make up for, but I’m not propositioning you in the library- not right now, anyways.”

Geralt looks away, unsure of himself. What is there to say? In his experience, touches like these were not without motivation, be it sex or coin or, at times, manipulation. He doesn’t know how to say that though- explain that he doesn't know what he's doing.

But Jaskier can hear the words in his silence, “How terrible. I could write ballads shaming all your past lovers for their insolence, really. You deserve so much more. I want your touch at all times, not just in bed, as a sign of affection and… belonging,” he says softly, pressing soothing kisses to the wolf’s jaw. “Besides, being in your arms like this- it’s my favorite place to be. You make me feel so safe and cared for, my love.”

Geralt can’t help but smile, letting out a hum of satisfaction. suddenly it becomes obvious how Jaskier had so many blushing suitors chasing after him in every town; his words really are sweet as honey. Geralt tugs him closer, using his free hand to brush through his hair idly.

 _Affection for affection’s sake_ \- like lovers that walk down the street holding hands even after years of marriage or the way betrothed always seem to have their arms around each other, even in public taverns and marketplaces. It’s not entirely foreign to Geralt, but he’d never considered doing it himself, not out of a lack of want but rather a lack of availability; it wasn’t something Geralt thought he could have. 

But as Jaskier, satisfied with his triumph, settles snugly against his witcher, his eyes fall closed and breathing slowly evens out in utter relaxation.

And Geralt finds himself thinking he could get used to this.

Time passes, long enough for Geralt to make his way through part of his book and find his eyelids heavy in the comfort of the room. He’s only brought back into reality from the click-clacking of boots on the stone flooring outside the library. Jaskier pears up at him from under thick eyelashes, and Geralt can see the question there: should he move? Pretend they weren’t doing this? Hide this part of their relationship from the others? But there’s hope glimmering in his eyes, too, so Geralt does something he doesn’t expect himself to do and ignores the impending approach of what is surely Lambert with his horrible jokes and relentless teasing. Instead, he presses a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead and goes back to reading his book; the arm around his bard tightens instinctively as he finds himself thinking he would very much like to show Jaskier is his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ofc Yennefer is doing all the work while the boys goof of :'D
> 
> As always! Thank you for all the kudos and kind comments. You're all the best :)


	15. Snowflakes and Cider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!  
> I AM BACK! It has been awhile, but I have my usual excuse of school. Winter break starts in two weeks, so expect more updates throughout December!! :D

“Now, I do hope there won’t be any problems between us since Geralt and I have become lovers. I know you were once his one true love, the apple of his eye which could do no wrong. And don’t misunderstand me, I don’t intend on stepping on your feet here, but you must know it’s me he loves most of all.” Long lashes flutter at him, almost a forced apathy on her face. So, Jaskier scrambles to add, “Not that any contention between us should rise out of that. I would like to avoid getting into scrabbles with someone as powerful and beautiful as you.”

She huffs impatiently, and after a tense moment, Roach nudges his hand with her snout, preening when he rubs along the bridge, then moves his hands to run his fingers through the longer hair of her cheeks.

“I knew we could come to an agreement,” he grins, earning a soft whinny from the mare.

“Jaskier, what are you doing?” Geralt asks as he steps into the stables, tilting his head as he watches Jaskier pet Roach and Pegasus with one hand each. Snowflakes stick to his hair, barely distinguishable against the frosty locks.

“I was just visiting our friends,” he smiles.

It’s contagious and Geralt can’t help but smirk too, playful and teasing “Hm, and what about training?”

“Already did that.”

Despite the weather growing colder each day, the witchers continue their training. It is important not to slow and become sloppy over winter- that’s inviting death, Geralt explained. Really, training only takes up a small portion of their days, and Jaskier can’t help but think the true reason for it is that the wolves would become unbearably bored if they didn’t have any sense of regularity to their days.

Today, Jaskier and Geralt had been practicing signs well after the others left to go inside. Jaskier finds himself training with Geralt most days, though the others sometimes help with weapon training; Eskel joins for sign training sometimes; and he often helps Lambert make some of the witchers’ bombs and potions.

“Had one more thing on our list.”

Jaskier sighs, dramatic and put on like even speaking the sentence was a chore, “Geralt, I know training is entertaining for you, but frankly, my dear, I’m  _ bored _ .”

“One more thing, then we can join the others. Eskel’s making hot cider.”

Jaskier perks up instantly, “Boozy cider?” he asks, a touch too eagerly. Geralt must notice, as he chuckles lightly with a nod.

“Fine,” Jaskier huffs, but a mischievous smile tugs at his lips. He presses a quick kiss to the top of Roach’s snout and then Pegasus’ before following Geralt outside.

It’s late into the winter and snow falls freely around them in heavy, large flakes, spinning and twirling in the air as they float to the stark white ground. There is not a spot outside that isn’t coated deeply in snow by now. The castle glimmers with dazzling sparkles of shimmering white like a billion brilliant crystals have formed over it. With his enhanced vision, it is even more stunning than before, each flicker of light reflected through snowflakes.

In the cold evening air, the two of them are bundled up in warm coats and furs. Jaskier has borrowed a pair of Geralt’s leather gloves, a hint too big for him but better than nothing. It allows him to touch the snow without his fingers going frigid and blue, at least. As they walk, he does just that, sticking his hand out to scoop snow off of a nearby ledge, compacting it into the palm of his hand as inconspicuously as possible. 

Geralt walks in front of him, unguarded and unaware; Jaskier is the student- a begrudging one that would like to get out of the cold. He doesn’t suspect a thing. 

Once they make their way into the clearing they regularly train at, Geralt begins to speak. “Now, were going to-” 

Jaskier chooses that moment to take his opportunity when the witcher is more focused on his teaching than his surroundings. The snowball makes contact with Geralt’s back with a solid thump, snow bursting into the air and sticking to the witcher’s hair.

Geralt turns on his heels far more swiftly than Jaskier anticipated, his fangs all but bared, “You little shit!”

“You wanted to train,” Jaskier grins like a child, throwing another snowball that hits Geralt in the chest, “I’m training.”

Geralt is quick to lunge into action, scooping up a handful of snow that swiftly finds Jaskier. “It’s war, then.” 

The air fills with their laughter and the fine dust of frost that sparkles in the remaining sunlight. Things escalate quickly from throwing snowballs to reverting to alternate tactics. Jaskier kicks waves of snow up from the ground at Geralt. And when he tries to hide behind a tree, Geralt Aards the snow off of it, dumping piles of snow onto him, cold droplets running down the collar of his jacket, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

It’s a stalemate for the longest time, both of them covered in powder that melts and drips down their hair, until finally Jaskier comes up with a plan. He manages to gather a handful of snowballs. Tossing them all into the air at once, then he uses a blast of Aard to send them flying toward Geralt. 

With over half hitting him, Geralt stumbles backward, and too distracted by Jaskier to worry about his footing, he trips over some ice that sends him toppling to the ground. The witcher lands on his back with a thud, powdery snow flying into the air around him, glittering in the sunlight. Jaskier giggles, and it just gets worse as he lunges at Geralt to pin him down before he can get back up.

“Ha! I have defeated you, mighty witcher! The White Wolf of Rivia is mine!” He grins triumphantly. 

Geralt doesn’t fight it, finally conceding to the bard. Instead, one of his arms wraps around Jaskier’s waist, keeping him close. “And what will you do with me, mighty bard?”

Jaskier lets himself have the moment to take in the sight before him. The witcher’s long, white hair is sprawled out in the snow around him, white on white blending into the covered ground that shimmers like diamond dust itself. All the pale colors make his yellow eyes so much brighter; it nearly knocks the air from Jaskier’s lungs.

“Hm?” Geralt hums, “Cat got your tongue?”

“You’re so stunning. The snow really suits you.” Jaskier breathes out.

Geralt purses his lips, but it doesn’t stop the corners of his mouth from curling up in a shy smile. Oh, how Jaskier adores that bashful look on him. The only thing better would be to see the man take a compliment confidently.

“I love you so much, my dear,” Jaskier says, brushing a stray hair from Geralt’s face.

The only answer he gets is the sudden and forceful press of Geralt’s lips against his as the bard is hauled forward by the collar of his coat. In the cold of the frosted winter air, Geralt’s lips are hot against his as the witcher works to speak with action rather than words.

A kiss from him never feels like a habit or a thoughtless way to chase pleasure. No, the revenant touches of his hands, the desperate need with which he seeks more of Jaskier, the utter devotion communicated in each moment they’re together speak to years of yearning and desire now transformed into something so much more.

Jaskier gets lost in moments like this unlike any others. He isn’t sure how much time passes, but their noses are cold where they brush, and his fingers are beginning to tingle when they pull away.

“You must be freezing,” Jaskier murmurs against Geralt’s lips.

The witcher beneath him smirks, “’m fine. You’ll just have to warm my bed tonight.”

Jaskier chuckles, shaking his head “Have cheesy jokes turned into cheesy pick-up lines now?”

“Of course,” Geralt nods “Come, let’s head inside before your teeth start chattering.”

Jaskier gets to his feet, offering Geralt a hand to pull him up. As they walk to the keep, frigid gusts of wind blow against them now that they are no longer huddled on the ground, the chill catches up with him. He’s shivering by the time the oversized wooden doors slam shut behind them.

He rushes to slip off his leather gloves, attempting to blow warm air over where his fingers have gone pale in the cold.

“Hm, give me your hands.” Geralt hums, stepping into the bard’s space. He takes Jaskier’s hands in his. His hands themselves are warmer despite laying in the snow- something about wolves having higher body temperatures than cats. That, or it’s the extra mutations that keep Geralt warmer. At least he can experience a little less pain for the extra that he endured in his trials, Jaskier thinks idly.

Geralt makes the Igni sign with one hand, but no flames appear. For a moment, Jaskier wonders if it didn’t work or if he was lighting a candle or fireplace elsewhere. However, when Geralt’s hands cup his again, they’re hot; heat that wasn’t there before radiates off his skin.

“Oh,” Jaskier gasps.

“Don’t try this unless you want to burn yourself again.”

Jaskier lets out a playful “humph,” rolling his eyes at his lover’s teasing smile, “I guess I’ll just have to keep you around.”

The burn from their little adventure has healed long ago by now, not even leaving a mark behind. He supposes if it did, Geralt wouldn’t be making light of it. Since then, he’s been able to hone his skills much more; he can light candles with Igni quite easily now, and most of the time when he tries to blow them out with Aard, he doesn’t knock them over. Though, that one can be more tricky to do as it requires preciseness.

“You know, I think my lips are cold too.” Jaskier says, fluttering his lashes the best he can- not that it’s particularly needed. Unlike many of his conquests and past relationships, he doesn’t feel like he has to put on a show to be desired by Geralt.

“That so?” his witcher hums, leaning in to kiss him. It’s light and soft and doesn’t last longer than a moment, unlike before, but it’s sweet and exactly what he wanted.

Speaking of want- Jaskier bites his lip as a mischievous grin grows on his face. “You know what else is cold?” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“ _ Please _ don’t answer that.” A familiar voice says from behind him. Jaskier jumps at the sudden presence of another person. When he turns, he’s met with the gaze of Yennefer staring at them, hands on her hips and entirely unamused.

They haven’t seen the sorceress since they became a couple, and Jaskier’s first instinct is to cling to Geralt all the tighter. It’s silly, but memories of watching Geralt leave him behind to run after her for years still linger in his mind. Fear and insecurity claw their way up inside his chest, however foolish it may be; he feels that he has to hold on to what he has- defend his right to be in the witcher’s arms. Yet, the logical part of him knows she doesn’t care. If anything, she saw this coming, encouraged it in her own way even.

“Yen,” Geralt says, and Jaskier can feel the way he tenses under his touch- he wonders if Geralt wants to pull away from him, pretend they weren’t just kissing.

But then again, Jaskier knows she saw this coming. Does Geralt?

Yennefer herself seems unperturbed, the same low-level irritation she always seems to have apparent on her face. “I was hoping we could talk. I’ve more information for you.”

Geralt looks to him, a question lingering in his eyes.

And Jaskier thinks it’s the first time Geralt has done that- asked him before following Yennefer wherever she asks, wherever she goes. It’s the first time he feels that Geralt  _ wants  _ to stay with him instead. It settles the turbulence in his chest, fills the space with a kind of peace that reassures him what’s between them isn’t just a momentary distraction or last resort for Geralt.

“Now? We just came in.” Geralt grumbles.

“I wasn’t planning on staying all evening, Geralt. It won’t take long, and then you can have your warm drinks and play Gwent or whatever else you do all winter,” she says, brushing his complaints aside.

Again, Geralt’s eyes find him, a silent question, and that’s all he needs. Jaskier smiles softly, giving Geralt’s bicep a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, darling. I’ll clean up and join Eskel and Lambert for drinks. You can follow when you’re done.”

\--

“So, you and the bard,” Yennefer says as soon as they make it onto the balcony off of the main hall. The wind doesn’t hit here as much, and there’s a covering over top, allowing them to look out over the mountain range in relative comfort.

Geralt lights the torches as they step out, though the sun has not yet fully set. The heat they give off, however little, is welcome after being out for so long.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out that way.”

“Oh please, I saw the bard’s memories.” she rolls her eyes.

Then, she saw his confession, no matter how hard he tried to hide it from her. And all this time, she didn’t say a thing? “So, you’re not mad?” he asks, almost sheepishly.

“You really expected me to be broken up over  _ a man _ for this long?” she scoffs, though he knows there isn’t truly malevolence there.

“Fair enough.”

“The only thing I should be lamenting is my wasted time.”

“Don’t have to rub it in,” He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. Really, she’s right though. It took them a long time to figure out what was best for them.

“I’m not mad you’re happy, Geralt. You deserve to be happy. If I were mad about anything, it would be that you tied us together with that foolish wish.” He opens his mouth to speak, but she holds out a hand to silence him, “ _ However _ , I have decided it is not so bad being tied to a friend.” Yennefer finishes. The statement isn’t exactly what he had expected. 

He expected to be chastised for his foolishness, for wasting her time, for never being what she wanted, but instead, he gets a warm smile and… acceptance.  “I’m glad,” he smiles in return. “Makes it more convenient when I need someone to get me out of trouble.”

“Of course,” she huffs sardonically, “Besides, things are better this way. You weren’t exactly the ideal boyfriend, you know. I certainly hope you do better this time.” She chides, mischief sparkling in her eyes.

“Gee, thanks, Yen.” Geralt responds flatly, “I’ll try not to fuck this one up.”

“Do. The bard deserves that much. He’s certainly put up with you long enough,” she says, making him huff out a laugh as they both begin to chuckle.

“Can say that again.” Geralt rests his elbows on the railing of the balcony, a small smirk still on his face.

There’s a moment of silence in which only the wind fills the space and sounds around them. And Geralt allows himself to feel the weight of worry lift from him as relief sets in. Yennefer is his friend, and he would like to keep it that way, but he had worried he did her wrong by letting her discover his relationship with Jaskier in such a  _ blunt _ way. there’s a comfort to their friendship and what’s become of it. he feels at ease, like all the pieces have fallen into place around him.

“How did you know it was him whom you love?” Her question comes as a surprise to him- the last thing he’d expect her to ask, really, and a dangerous road to go down.

“Yen...”

Violet eyes find him, and he already knows the  reprimanding  voice she’s about to use, “Geralt, for once just talk about your emotions.”

Right, because he enjoys doing that so much- and with Yennefer no less. Geralt sighs, heavy and exaggerated, “Why do you want to know?”

“We didn’t work together because we are two people broken in many of the same ways. I’d like to know how  _ you _ of all people managed to figure out your emotions before me for once.”

He huffs in amusement, “He almost died. It was the most painful thing I’d ever felt. Thinking about being alone again, I just… couldn’t lie to myself anymore- didn’t want him to go without knowing.”

She nods “But he brings no benefit to your life- more trouble than he’s worth, really.” she teases

“He does though.  _ Emotionally _ .”

Yes, that took awhile to understand and even longer to accept. Jaskier got them into more trouble than Geralt could ever manage on his own, and yet, the witcher found himself never once truly considering leaving him behind. The idea of being so stuck to a human was foreign to him for the longest time, until he caught himself changing right before his eyes- laughter spilling from his lips easier, the weight on his shoulders lifting each day- some days he even started to believe what he did mattered. All because someone was there to care for him.

“Hm,” she hums thoughtfully, sounding more like Geralt than herself for a moment.

“What?”

“Just thinking. Let us get back to the matter at hand.”

The news she bares is less than ideal- a sorcerer with a witcher under his command, holed up in the hills of Dol Blathanna. They will have to take extra measures to ensure both him and Jaskier’s safety. Though Yennefer suspects that the sorcerer may only be able to control those whom he created, there is a risk for Geralt too.

The solution is not an easy one, either. Jaskier has made progress in his training, they haven’t so much as touched Axii. The sign which enables the caster to take ahold of the mind of others —human or otherwise— is a dangerous one. In the wrong hands, it has brought ruin. In unskilled hands or from thoughtless tongues, the spell can go awry easily. However, they will need to build up Jaskier’s immunity to mind control, help him identify and fight it, for a mind weak to magic may easily be manipulated.

Geralt frowns, “Do we need to leave immediately?”

“No. He will need his strength if my suspicions are correct. We should wait until the end of winter.”

“Hm,” Geralt nods. “Once frost breaks, we will leave. That will give us time to train.”

“I will fight by your side. Have no doubt about that.” Yennefer says, her voice unwavering.

“Thank you. I owe you.”

“Indeed, you do.” She chides. “For now, though, I ought to be going.”

She runs her hands over the dark fabric of her dress, brushing out the wrinkles in the skirt before turning away from Geralt to the open space of the deck. “Yen?” he interrupts before she can open a portal.

“Yes?”

“Want to stay for drinks? Eskel made cider.”

The sorceress purses her lips in a minute frown. For a moment, he’s sure she will say no, but after a big sigh, she concedes “Triss has been telling me to be more social. And I suppose I shouldn’t waste a chance to bother Lambert. He is ever so entertaining when he gets worked up over nothing.”

“Of course,” Geralt huffs in amusement. As they walk back inside, he can’t help himself but tease her, “So, Triss?”

“Shut up, Geralt.”

“Hm. No wonder you’re not mad.” That earns him a smack on the arm, but it’s well worth it.

Geralt smiles to himself as they join the others. Things have changed. But they have changed for the better. There’s a comfort to their little family and what’s become of it- Jaskier as his lover, his brothers and Vesemir, and Yennefer, his dearest friend. He feels at ease, like all the pieces have fallen into place around him, and it fills him with a warmth he never believed he could have.

\--

Piled under fur blankets with the fireplace roaring nearby, the bard and the witcher curl up to sleep. Jaskier presses back against Geralt’s chest as if he’s trying to ensure every part of them is touching before he lets out a contented sigh, “I love you.”

Those words- words that fall from Jaskier’s mouth so often as if he doesn’t have to try. They set a spark ablaze in the pit of Geralt’s stomach. And yet, he’s never sure how to respond. They feel so strange and unknown, being directed at him.  _ Him _ . The Butcher of Blavikin, the White Wolf, a witcher.

So, he says nothing. Instead, he presses his lips to Jaskier’s neck, skimming across the delicate pulse point that smells so much like him- sweet and comforting.

The bard shivers under his attention, and for a moment it seems to be enough. Until in the silence, Jaskier speaks out, “Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t say it back.”

“What?”

“When I tell you I love you, you never say it. Yet, you love me. Do you not?” Jaskier says, rolling over onto his back so he can look Geralt in the eyes. Though, he makes no move to separate himself from the witcher’s arms or put distance between them nor does he smell of sadness or pain. So, Geralt must count that as a victory.

The question, and his answer, become jumbled on his tongue as he scrambles so for words, “I- yes! Of course, I just-”

“Why don’t you say it back when I say it, then?” Jaskier’s big, blue eyes search him as if he could find the answer with only a glance. His eyebrows are furrowed only the smallest- a hint of worry in his mind. But he’s so open and vulnerable; Geralt doesn’t know how he does it.

“I _ -” didn’t know he was supposed to _ \--  _ Fuck, that sounds stupid. _ It’s more complicated than that. “I said it, before. It’s the only time I’ve said it.”

Jaskier huffs lightly, the hint of a smile on his lips, “Yes, that’s my point.”

“Ever. Since coming to Kaer Morhen, anyways.”

“ _ Oh. _ ”

“You say it a lot. I didn’t know- I-” Geralt stops. This rambling is getting him nowhere. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to ground himself. When he opens them, he finds Jaskier’s hand lightly cupping his cheek as he watches patiently “Words like that are difficult sometimes. You say it so often like it’s- it’s easy. I don’t know how- don’t even know why you feel that way about me sometimes,” he admits with mumbled words and adverted eyes.

“Oh, Geralt. Of course, I say it often. I say it when I think about it. I say it when I feel it. I’d even say it when I don’t feel it because I want you to know no matter what, I love you. It’s okay if it’s difficult for you—” Jaskier says softly, his voice taking on that tone that reminds Geralt of the way one would calm a skittish animal- perhaps that is more appropriate than he’s willing to admit. “I guess I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind about me.”

“Never.” Geralt growls “I’ll never change my mind, Jask.  _ Never _ .”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Jaskier worries his lip between his teeth as he thinks until finally, he says “I want to keep telling you I love you all the time… If that’s alright?”

“I want you to keep telling me.” Geralt smiles, somehow feeling even warmer than before.

“Good,” Jaskier curls back onto his side, his back pressed against Geralt’s chest again, “I love you, Geralt. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Geralt responds, nuzzling into Jaskier’s neck once more. There’s a long silence between them before he finally mutters, “I love you too.”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, but the way his heartbeat speeds up and he presses himself back against Geralt tells the witcher all he needs to know; he’s sure if he were to look at Jaskier’s face, he’d see a brilliantly warm smile reserved just for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you for all the kind and encouraging comments and kudos. I love you all <3


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